Fizz
by Kiki Cabou
Summary: Harry has issues.  Fortunately, he also has friends.  A Sixth Year story.  Major spoilers for OOTP, GOF.  This story is now COMPLETE.  Enjoy.
1. Prologue: Cheers

**PROLOGUE: Cheers**

Nights were the worst.

Of course, nights had never been good to Harry. He'd had bad dreams for years … so many, in fact, that he'd become almost blasé about it. There were the usual horrifying images, the screams, the shakes, and the sweat. It was hateful and disturbing, but at least it happened with some regularity. He knew what to expect: two or three nightmares in the course of a weekend, and perhaps one on a Monday. He had only "stupid dreams" the rest of the time, or none at all.

But ever since the chaos and the … passing … at the Department of Mysteries, and Dumbledore's sad revelation, sleep, even the screwed-up version of sleep Harry was acquainted with, had become almost impossible. It made the summer holidays doubly hard. He dutifully wrote his friends, filling leaves and leaves of parchment with kind, passive words that meant absolutely nothing. He dutifully wrote the Order, and told them he was okay, even though he wasn't. He dutifully slaved away for the horrible Dursleys during the day, attempting to keep his nose clean and their hedges trimmed.

And at night, he dutifully went to Hell, where Sirius waited, and Cedric, and his parents, ghastly apparitions with chalk-white faces and black stains for eyes. But what Hell would be complete without awful visions of deceased schoolmates? Soon there were terrifying images of Hermione and Ron, she disemboweled on the floor of the Great Hall and staring lifelessly up at the ceiling, he hanged from a lamp in the library by his own belt. Reasoning with the horror was useless. He repeatedly asked, "What would Ron be doing in the library?" but it did nothing to make the image disappear.

Hermione was even worse than Ron. Sometimes she would stare blankly while he knelt at her side and brushed her blood-soaked hair off her face, and sometimes she would talk. Well, perhaps "talk" was stretching it. She droned at him, spouting strings of nonsense with not enough prepositions and too many four-syllable words. After seeing it for the sixth time he'd managed to be slightly clinical and made an attempt to understand her, while swallowing the nausea burbling inside him. The first time, though, he was … unprepared. He'd woken up screaming, gasping for air and soaked in sweat, and realized that he'd pissed himself.

Nights had gotten very bad indeed.

Frequently during the day he would slip into a quiet depression. Again, this was nothing new. The Dursleys were not his favorite people and he wasn't interested in talking to them, particularly not about what had happened. But it had been so damn painful to lose Sirius, and it cut deeply that no one in the Order, not even Lupin, had attempted to talk to him about it. He didn't know if they felt it was for the best to let him get through it on his own, or if they'd been told to shut up. Either way, it hurt.

And talking to Ron or Hermione was out of the question. Back in June, their conversations had all begun with Hermione timidly asking him if he wanted to discuss … "you know," and Ron answering for him that he didn't, even the few times that he actually had. Separated from his friends for the summer, it was all he could do to write letters that wouldn't send them into a panic. He couldn't even talk to Hedwig. She'd spent as much time away from Privet Drive as possible, hunting and doing whatever else it was that birds did to amuse themselves, and frankly he couldn't blame her. He knew he wasn't very good company.

But Harry knew something else, something a bit more profound than "I am not good company." The thought was ugly and hazy and buried under lots of others, and he didn't know whether to despair of the truth of it, or laugh at the irony. Despite Voldemort's legendary Legilimency, the dark wizard didn't have to do a damn thing to him. He was slowly destroying himself, bit by scrappy bit, all on his own.

It showed. By the end of the holidays his normally bright eyes were dull and ringed with dark circles. His relatives, threatened quite nicely by the Order, had resigned themselves to feeding him properly for once, but he couldn't bring himself to eat much. He was skin and bones by the end of August. No amount of showering made him feel clean, for some reason, and he remembered the first thing Hermione did upon seeing him at Platform 9 and three-quarters was gasp. Then she pulled him into a crushing hug, which he returned, but with a lot less force.

Now, however, two weeks into term at Hogwarts, it seemed that things were finally turning around for him.

The first fortnight of school had been its usual monumental fit of madness, naturally. There was the increasing workload (his year was starting their marathon run to N.E.W.T.s) and the hysteria this had instilled in Hermione. There was Quidditch. His ban had been lifted, so now Ron was Captain and Keeper and he was Seeker once again. There were days full of pretending to be normal. And there were the hard, scary nights.

Not for long, though.

Harry was leaning against the side of Greenhouse 2 at morning break, alone under a grey sky. He had deftly shaken off Ron and Hermione at the library and doubled back around the grounds to get to this spot. He was standing on his right leg, as his left foot was planted on the greenhouse wall. The leg attached to it was bouncing madly to siphon off some of his nervous energy. He played with the cap on a brand-new silver hip flask, knowing full well he was toying with something essential about himself. The thought both excited and worried him.

Finally, after two weeks of putting this together, he had product. But he was still a bit apprehensive. Should he do it? Should he dump it? He only had a few minutes to make his choice before the bell, and after all, nothing was risk-free … particularly something like this.

Harry snorted. Honestly, he didn't know why he was even vacillating. He'd made it. He was competent. It was safe. And with one mouthful, his troubles would disappear.

"Cheers," he said to no one in particular, and took a quick drink.

Most of it slipped sweetly down his throat, but three drops of violently purple liquid clung to his lips. He licked them away and took a deep, easy breath.

Then he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in months.

Free at last.

Chapter One is on its way. :D R and R, _si vous plait_.


	2. I Odd

Disclaimer: I own nothing. weeps … gets over it Enjoy!

To those who reviewed the prologue: Thankies! I'm so happy to be writing for all of you. :D Have fun, folks. This is …

**FIZZ

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"_Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes." – Anon._

**CHAPTER ONE: Odd**

October had arrived, and at nine o'clock on a crisp Saturday morning, Ron Weasley was the last place anyone expected him to be. He was not out practicing on the Quidditch pitch. He was not hanging around in the common room. He was instead hidden behind his bed curtains, buried under the covers of his four-poster, and bawling his eyes out. This was highly unusual of Ron, but he was enormously depressed at the moment and didn't care who knew.

"'You're not suitable,' she says. Hmph! Not suitable? How! … I'm attractive, right? … Yes! Yes, I am! It can't be me! It must be her!" he muttered to himself, sniffling and wiping his eyes.

There was suddenly a very loud, weary sigh and the bed curtains were unceremoniously ripped open. Bright sunshine streamed in, half-blinding Ron and revealing Harry, who was standing there with crossed arms and a slight smile on his face. He was dressed for Quidditch practice, pads tied loosely and hanging off his old stained workout clothes.

"Ron, stop moping. It doesn't suit you."

This earned Harry a squint and an ugly frown. Ron turned his back on him and sniffed again. Harry rolled his eyes.

"All right, so Parvati said she wouldn't go to the dance with you! It's not like there aren't any other girls at Hogwarts. Plenty of fish in the sea, I say," he said cheerfully, clambering up onto Ron's mattress and clapping his friend on the back.

"Shut up, Harry."

Harry put his hands on his hips. This was getting ridiculous. Yesterday evening at Hogsmeade, Ron had asked Parvati Patil to the upcoming Hallowe'en Dance, and she'd given him the old head shake. But she was arguably one of the shallowest birds to ever grace Gryffindor tower, and Ron had made a stinking mess of asking her out.

Besides, Gryffindor had an upcoming match against Slytherin, and the team had to train. There was no time for melodrama.

"I will not shut up, and you will not stay in bed all day!" Harry said firmly. "Come on, get your arse moving and throw on some clothes. You know you'll feel better if you practice, you always do."

"No!" Ron growled.

"Yes!" Harry insisted. He grabbed hold of Ron's top cover and yanked.

"No!" Ron yanked back.

A brief struggle ensued and Harry, being smaller than Ron, finally lost; a firm shove sent him straight to the floor, bum first. Ron pulled the blankets right up over his head and sniffed.

Quite annoyed, Harry shook off his fall and stood up. If Ron was just going to lie about and mope, then that was his call. Harry had more important things to do than cater to a cranky roommate – like lead a practice. He dusted himself off and grabbed his broom.

Turning back to the bed he asked, rather sarcastically, "Is there anything I can do?"

"No!" Ron wailed dramatically, muffled by the covers. "Just go away! Leave me alone with my pain!"

Harry stood and watched this pitiful spectacle for a moment. "Fine," he said simply, and made for the door. "I'm going to take the team out and do drills. I'll see you in a bit."

Ron ripped the blankets off his head in shock. "You're just LEAVING me here?" he yelled out, very unhappy.

"I believe that's what you asked me to do," Harry said, as calmly as he could.

He stalked off, feeling Ron's angry blue eyes boring into his shoulders, and shrugged off the stare, slipping through the door and shutting it behind him. It closed with a very final click.

Harry, however, did not set off immediately. He leaned against the door, the back of his head bumping the sign that read "Sixth Years." Then he took several deep breaths, trying to control himself. It was no good. He was still feeling angry with Ron, and he couldn't face the rest of the team like this, it wasn't fair.

Nothing for it, then.

A furtive glance right and left told him no one was around. With a practiced motion, he whipped the hip flask out of his back pocket, took a quick sip, and put it back.

Almost immediately he felt the tension between his eyebrows dissipate. His annoyance was gone. He was calm as a cucumber … happy, even. He whistled as he jogged down the stairs into the common room and hailed the rest of the team. It was time for practice.

* * *

By Sunday morning, Ron was over Parvati's rejection … mostly. But he was still really irked with Harry (he really hadn't spoken to him since their altercation on Saturday). Besides, he had some homework to do and Harry, who'd woken up late, was taking breakfast in the Great Hall. This was odd; Harry was usually an early riser. Ron wasn't concerned about this, though. He figured he should leave Harry to eat by himself.

After killing a few hours wandering around the castle and chatting with the occasional portrait, he remembered the looming stack of homework on his bed. Then he forgot about it again and decided to go bother Hermione in the library. For some reason, even after five years of friendship with the bushy-haired girl, it was still fun to see how fast he could successfully interrupt her work. His personal best so far was two minutes.

He picked up an old Quidditch magazine near the entrance and quickly located her at the back. She was camped out next to the Potions section and had taken over two tables with her books. Her hair was bushing out even more than usual, and she didn't even look up at him as he plopped down across from her. Instead, she dutifully continued to take notes from an enormous tome at her left.

Her eyes looked tired, her skin looked pale, and whatever research she was doing, it looked absurdly boring. She needed a break, Ron could tell. But after a few minutes of sitting in silence and skimming his magazine, while sneaking glances at her working diligently, he knew he'd have to say something really juicy to get her to talk to him.

"Parvati" was the first idea that struck. But then he realized that asking Hermione about his Parvati problem was probably not very smart. She'd undoubtedly just insult him for getting rejected. He really didn't need that, not after Harry had been such a prat yesterday morning, stomping away and leaving him all alone.

And then it hit him: Harry. Harry was his way in. Anything concerning their mutual bespectacled friend seemed to be a hot topic with Hermione these days, and this little spat of theirs was certain to pique her interest. Then he could very easily segue from their fight … to his plight. Genius!

"Hey, 'Mione?" he asked.

"Mm?" she replied, jotting something down.

"I think Harry's through being my friend."

His sentence worked so well it was a little scary. Hermione's attention was immediately diverted from her work. She looked up and stared at Ron for a moment.

"Pardon?"

"I said, I think Harry's done being my friend."

Hermione, much to Ron's dismay, looked very cross instead of sympathetic.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, what the hell did you do?" she hissed.

"I didn't do anything!" Ron hissed back, slightly affronted, and went on to tell her the whole story of their argument, the shoving match, and Harry's departure.

Hermione snorted when he finished. "For heavens' sake!" she said. "You were all broken up about Parvati rejecting you?"

Ron nodded. Hermione made a huffy noise in her throat.

"Oh, of all the…" She rubbed her eyes and started again. "Ron, you purposely got mud on her, tried to scour it off, and messed up the charm so badly it obliterated most of her clothes … in the middle of High Street, of all places! And then, instead of apologizing like a normal person, you asked her out."

"But Hermione –"

Hermione held up a hand in irritation and Ron wisely shut up.

"I had to take her home. I had to put her to bed. And I had to listen to her sob for an hour over her stupid Burberry coat! Now, I know Parvati isn't the deepest puddle in the marsh, but what you did was horrible, Ron! Honestly, what did you expect her to say?"

Ron scowled. He was now irritated with two people: Harry for having only the barest required amount of sympathy and then just walking out on him, and Hermione for not having any sympathy at all.

Hermione didn't seem to care that she was being harsh. She was leaning back in her chair, her arms crossed, and staring at him pointedly with one eyebrow raised. It was her classic "You know I'm right, so don't even bother arguing with me!" face.

Defeated, Ron slumped in his seat. "All right, point taken."

"Thank you," Hermione said. She uncrossed her arms and picked up her quill again. "Now can I please go back to my work?"

"You can … in a minute," said Ron. "I want to ask you one question before you do, though."

"I don't care if you're getting an 'early start' on asking girls this year. I won't go to the Hallowe'en Dance with you."

Ron snorted. "Like I was going to ask."

"Oh no?" Hermione said, without any trace of disappointment. "What is it, then?"

Ron shifted in his seat. The thought had occurred to him in the middle of Hermione's lecture (which he'd tuned out), and the idea was too important to ignore.

Unfortunately, he didn't know exactly how to phrase the question. He'd never felt comfortable with this sort of thing, really. It implied he was looking at his male best friend rather more deeply than blokes were supposed to look at each other. The very thought gave him the squiggly-wigglies.

"Have you noticed …?" Ron trailed off.

"Have I noticed what?" Hermione cut in sharply, and leaned in. The light caught the bags under her eyes.

"Have you seen Harry lately? Because, well, he's been acting a little … odd," he finished lamely.

It was like someone had flicked a switch.

Hermione went from haggard and annoyed to alert and concerned in half a second. She put down her quill, closed her book with a neat snap, laced her fingers in front of her on the table, and focused all her attention on Ron. Her brown eyes were pinned on him and she looked very serious.

"I was wondering when you were going to say something," she said.

* * *

More? 


	3. II Clear

**Shiba, Angel Princess, and Chib: **Whassap, y'all:-) Thank you so much for reviewing. Wow! You guys are like, actual fans, I think. Now I know how rock stars feel. LOL **Angel**, thanks for pointing out the "early bird" thing in chapter one. I know you were kidding. I fixed it anyway.

A quick note to Crucified Chinchilla, who is trapped in the bio lab: endometriosis macrophage patella nucleus. Here's more.

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**CHAPTER TWO: Clear**

"You were wondering …" Ron stopped talking but his mouth hung open like a fish.

Hermione was annoyed. Ron was always so slow on the uptake, particularly when it came to Harry. She couldn't figure it out. The two of them were best friends. They played Quidditch together. They slept in the same room, for heaven's sake! How could he not see something was wrong?

"Ron, close your mouth. You look like an idiot."

She was quite pleased with Ron's response: the sharp snap of teeth on teeth and suddenly closed lips.

"Yes," she continued, "I've noticed things. Changes. Of course, after June he hasn't been quite himself, but … I don't know. After everything that's happened, he's not acted the way I thought he would."

Ron nodded. He seemed to understand, finally. "What have you seen?" he asked.

Hermione leaned back and crossed her arms again, wondering what to say. After Sirius's death at the end of last year, she had expected Harry to fall apart – have a crying jag, maybe a violent outburst or two (and the "secret" one in Dumbledore's office didn't count). But her green-eyed friend had done neither. Of course, she couldn't be quite certain what he had been up to while she and Ron were cooped up in the hospital wing, but whenever he came to visit he was pleasant, if taciturn.

She knew the summer had been hard on Harry. The Dursleys were horrific as usual although the threats from the Order had made them back off considerably. But Harry had not been allowed to go to the Burrow this year, (on Dumbledore's orders, she suspected). She'd pictured him often while she wrote to him, trapped in his room or working hard outside. Either way, he looked lost and alone, with no one to talk to. The gaunt, tired person she saw on the platform September 1st confirmed all her fears.

Hermione had wondered for two months if Harry had been able to come to terms with what happened to Sirius. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if he had really grieved at all.

The thought disturbed her.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"You sort of spaced out. Are you all right?"

Hermione sighed. Ron was looking at her anxiously. She had to tell him something. There was a little knot in her stomach telling her that she was going to have to be the adult in this situation.

"No, I'm not all right," she began. "Something's definitely going on with Harry. He _is_ acting odd, and I think we need to figure out why."

Ron gave her a sort of queer glance. It indicated that the conversation was either not going in the direction he wanted, or he was simply out of his element.

"You know, Hermione, Harry's acted odd before, and it all turned out okay. I mean, remember last year in August … all the screaming? I think that counts as odd, and that all cleared right up."

"Oh, yes," Hermione parried dryly. "He stopped acting like a damn lunatic the minute someone let him into the loop, there's a shock. Ron, you have to admit he's been very down ever since the Department of Mysteries fiasco. And I know he spoke to Dumbledore at the end of the year, just not about what. He wrote me in a letter."

"He did?" Ron said, sounding surprised and slightly hurt. "He didn't tell me that."

"Did you ask?" Hermione asked.

"Well, no, I got a bit carried away writing about Quidditch, but still! He's my best mate!"

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "All right, never mind that. How long have you noticed he's been acting weird?"

Ron scratched his head. "Dunno, about a week, I think."

"Try two," Hermione replied, tucking a strand of bushy brown hair behind her ear.

"Excuse me?"

Hermione licked her lips. How could she clarify that?

With school back in session, everyone's mind was primarily on revision, and for the first two weeks of term Harry had been acting mostly like, well, Harry … quiet, polite, with that adorable tendency to stare at his trainers when he knew he was in trouble.

But two weeks ago, he started smiling a lot, for no apparent reason at all. Indeed, a fortnight ago to the day, he'd walked by her in the corridor, snatched her up gently and twirled her, apparently just for the fun of it, even though he'd told her a while back that he "didn't dance." And a few days after that he smiled cheerfully at her, right after Professor McGonagall had passed out enough homework to crush a small dog.

It was so "not Harry" that a week ago Ron had actually shouted at him to "stop looking so bloody cheerful," and ever since then, he'd been smiling less and less, but he was still looking a little too … happy.

How ironic that she'd come to associate Harry, arguably one of the strongest, most quietly positive people she knew, with chronic depression.

"He danced with me," she said finally. "It was two weeks ago on Monday. I remember it perfectly. I was walking to Arithmancy, and he came up behind me, took me in his arms, and twirled me in the corridor. Then he put his hands in his pockets and walked away, and he was actually whistling!"

All the color left Ron's face. "Harry doesn't whistle."

He said this with such gravitas that Hermione almost snorted. But at least Ron had a sense of the situation, now. And they were both thinking the same thing. Something was up, and knowing Harry's talent for attracting trouble, the something could not possibly be something good.

"Right. We know that Harry's been acting weird for two weeks, and it was sudden onset," Hermione said. "So that means we have three options: either he's under a spell, or someone slipped him a powerful potion, or it's some combination of the two. I think we should examine the symptoms he's exhibiting and try and work backwards from that."

"Agreed," Ron said, as Hermione took out a leaf of parchment and her quill.

"Okay," she said. "Symptoms you've noticed?"

Ron thought for a second. "Acting weird," he pronounced, and leaned back, as though that solved the mystery.

Hermione blinked at him once, dully, and looked around. The Hogwarts library, full of books on every potion and spell in existence, was absolutely massive. And "acting weird" was hardly a specific description of Harry's symptoms; if they couldn't come up with something more helpful, this was going to be next to impossible.

"Yes, good luck to us," Hermione muttered.

* * *

The Tuesday that followed was cold and dreary, and the damp, chilly dungeons did not help matters. Harry stamped his feet quietly to keep warm in Potions class. He'd rolled up his sleeves and was slicing ginger roots.

To his utter amazement (and Professor Snape's fury), he'd gotten an O on his Potions OWL. Snape had raged quite loudly over the grade – Harry heard him shouting at Professor McGonagall that someone had fiddled with it – but he was finally forced to consent that Harry had actually earned the mark and accepted him into his class.

That didn't mean that NEWT level Potions was fun in the least. Harry often felt Snape's eyes on him while he was working and occasionally looked up to see his least favorite professor glowering from his desk. "Irate" did not do his expression justice half the time. But despite his professor's enormous attitude problem, Harry had found a way to tune out most of the insults and focus completely on his work.

It was easy … a sip at breakfast, a sip at lunch, and a sip after dinner kept him feeling fine all day.

Things were much better now than they had been in mid-September, he could personally attest. Whereas two weeks ago he'd been doing a lot of smiling (perhaps too much), he and his elixir were now working together like cogs in a well-oiled machine.

"POTTER!"

The shout made him jump. Snape was towering over him, arms crossed and looking very upset. Harry looked up and met Snape's eyes.

"Sir?" he asked. As far as he knew, he hadn't done anything wrong … yet.

"What are you doing, you idiot? It's not time to add the crushed salamander tail! That comes later!"

Harry blinked at Snape, the picture of calm. He realized, with a bit of secret glee, that this would undoubtedly blow Snape's stack, and so he very slowly pointed to a small pile of orange powder in a corner of his workstation.

"But sir," he said, politely as you please, "I haven't added the salamander tail. It's sitting right there."

Snape, who had obviously been hoping to catch Harry in a mistake and make fun of him in front of the whole class, saw the little pile of powder, opened and closed his mouth a few times, made a very sour face, and finally turned and stalked away. Draco Malfoy turned and stuck his tongue out at Harry, but Harry didn't pay any attention. Hermione winked at him. He just smiled and turned back to his Restorative Draught.

It seemed that in the two weeks since he'd started his "regimen," his focus had improved, and by consequence, so had his brewing skills (much to Snape's annoyance). He was no longer an angry, bitter person in Potions class. He could feel a shield coming down around him whenever Snape started yelling and criticizing or making disparaging remarks. Something was cradling his mind, preventing him from unleashing any useless or reckless anger. In fact, he was beginning to find that he couldn't get angry at all about anything. There was just no need, he realized, and it would only lose points for his house.

Today, however, was a particularly trying day. He heard everything Snape said while they were stirring – every comment about rude Gryffindors, every blatant allusion to his father, so subtle that no one in the room but he would catch it – and even though he wasn't angry, and didn't make a mistake, the words took their toll nonetheless. He left his potion to simmer with everyone else's at the end of class, and collected his things, slightly alarmed to see that he'd broken into a sweat.

"Harry?"

Hermione was at his elbow when he picked up his bag. He turned to look at her, feeling something ache behind his eyes.

"Yes?" he said.

Hermione looked as though she wanted to say something serious, but she finally just smiled and said, "Good work today."

"Thanks," he mumbled, careful not to smile too much, and left.

While the rest of the students tromped off for morning break, Harry went the opposite direction and found the closest Boys room. He slipped into a stall, hung up his book bag, and took out his hip flask. Just in the nick of time, too. He felt dizzy, suddenly, and had to lean against the wall.

"Damn," he muttered. "I waited too long. That'll teach me."

How long had it been since breakfast? Three hours? Four? Something told him this was probably not very good, slippery slope and all that, but he needed a drink. His hands shaking, he took out his hip flask and downed a larger sip than usual.

It took a few minutes for the shakes to stop, but when they did, he realized that he didn't just feel steady on his feet. He felt completely in control. Two weeks ago, he was almost unbearably happy. The thought made him wince. Now, he was just calm. Clear. Ready for anything.

He put his flask away, picked up his bag, flushed the toilet in case anyone was listening, and wandered off to the Great Hall.

TBC


	4. III Sneak

**Reviewers, **thanks so much for commenting! I'm glad everyone's enjoying this so far, even if I seem to be killing **Shiba** with the suspense. **Angel**, again, thanks for your comments. Of course they count.:) **Infall and EAV,** thanks very much, you guys. I always appreciate the support.

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**CHAPTER THREE: Sneak**

Wednesday was a horror. The sixth-year Gryffindors spent the morning in Greenhouse 4, wrestling some fiercely strong Blistering Bulbs into pots (Neville broke out in a few boils but managed to subdue his specimen by crooning at it a bit). Then after lunch, McGonagall opened Transfiguration with a pop quiz. Nearly everyone failed. Hermione and Harry, however, both managed to turn their cats into ducks and back again. Harry lost a few points because his duck let out a loud "Meow!" but he still did it. McGonagall gave him a brief smile, which, Hermione noticed out of the corner of her eye, Harry didn't return.

She kept her mouth shut. On Sunday in the library, when she and Ron had started their little investigation, they'd made a pact to tell no one, especially Harry, what was going on. But after three days of meeting in secret (in-between studying and doing homework) and wracking their brains to describe Harry's symptoms, they'd been unable to narrow it down beyond "happiness moving into calm."

Because that was precisely what had happened. Hermione could see the change in Harry, clear as day. Two weeks ago, he'd been almost ridiculously happy. Now, though, he was just calm. He didn't smile that much, but he didn't frown, either. He seemed to have found an even keel. The trouble was, she knew he wasn't doing it by himself.

* * *

It was Wednesday evening at Quidditch practice when Ron finally caught a break in the case. The team was out drilling on the pitch, passing balls and practicing looping formations at high speed. Ron was taking a quick break. He sat in the stands and guzzled some water as his younger sister Ginny streaked by, holding the Quaffle and neatly evading her teammates. He smiled. It was good to have her on the team. She was kind of annoying sometimes, but mostly fun. Damn good Chaser, too.

He watched her and drank some more. Ginny did a quick loop-de-loop around Frank Edmonds, a fourth-year they'd recruited for a beater, and threw the Quaffle through one of the goal posts. A few people cheered.

It was right then that Ron noticed Harry was missing in action. From his spot on the bench, he could see that everyone else was flying around, but he made out no glint of glasses or a thatch of dark hair.

How odd.

Ron scratched his head and, mostly out of habit, looked down at his shoes. What he saw below him under the stands was a total shock. There was Harry, his pads tied firmly over his old workout clothes. His eyes were scrunched shut as he took a quick gulp from what looked like a silver hip flask. Then he capped it and tucked into his back pocket in half a second. It was complete dumb luck. If Ron had looked down only a moment later, he might have missed the whole thing.

Ron looked back up very fast, his heart pounding. So Harry was taking a potion of some kind, and obviously hiding it. He bit his lip and pretended to be interested in the practice. What could he do? If he confronted Harry about this, Harry would probably lie that it was pumpkin juice or some such nonsense, and more dangerously, realize Ron was on to him. No point in asking, then.

But a plot had begun to form in his head. If he could get some of what was in that hip flask away from Harry and deliver it to Hermione, then she'd be able to tell what was in it … and woe betide him if it really was pumpkin juice.

Plan formed, he gulped to himself and got to his feet. "Hey!" he blurted to all the sky-bound players. "Anybody seen Harry? We need to run a Seeker drill!"

He heard a scuffling noise from underneath him, and then a few moments later he spotted Harry on the other side of the pitch, obviously winded and trying to hide it.

"You called?" he shouted.

"Yeah, get your broomstick! We need to run a few Seeker drills and then we'll call it!"

"Okay!" Harry yelled again. He grabbed his Firebolt, hopped on, and roared off into the sky like a bird of prey.

The minute Ron had the thumbs-up from stone-faced Harry, he went to the ball box and released the Snitch. And for the next quarter of an hour, everything non-Quidditch related flittered out of his head. He got on his own broom and guarded the hoops from Ginny and the two other Chasers, while Frank and Jim Hewitt batted the Bludgers away from Harry, who was flying around at top speed so as not to lose momentum. Harry caught the Snitch after a quick dive and the practice was over.

Everyone trudged off the field, huffing, steaming, and sweating, but mostly exhilarated. The practice had gone very well, and now that the sun had set it was time for showers, dinner, homework, and bed. Harry and Ron let the younger ones run ahead of them into Gryffindor Tower, even though Ron said, "Oi! No running on the stairs!" Ginny, however, was a new Prefect, beginning her prep work for OWLS, and completely annoyed with their behavior.

"OI!" she yelled, with much more force than Ron. "NO RUNNING!"

The rest of the team all tried to slow down at once and crashed into each other. They were just picking themselves up off the stone floor and groaning when Ginny really let them have it.

"AND IF ANY OF YOU WALK INTO THE GREAT HALL AND STINK, TEN POINTS FROM GRYFFINDOR! NOW HIT THE SHOWERS, ALL OF YOU!"

They stared at her for a moment with their mouths hanging open.

Marjorie McClintock, a tiny third-year Chaser with a soft speaking voice and considerable talent, stammered "Y-Y-Yes, ma'am. Come on, everyone."

They formed a neat line of four people and marched up the stairs like ducklings, Ginny bringing up the rear. The Captain and the Seeker just stared.

"Damn," said Harry, impressed by this display.

Ron just laughed. He clapped Harry on the shoulder. Harry did not smile, but he didn't push Ron away, either, so they both climbed the stairs – one working out logistics even as he grinned, and the other blissfully unaware.

* * *

When they reached their dormitory, Ron told Harry he could have the first shower. He needed a moment to get his shaving things together.

Harry knew that at one point in the distant past he would have laughed and made some crack about Ron's peach-fuzz colony. (Ron had discovered a single hair growing on his chin two days ago, and was convinced that this officially made him a man.) But there just didn't seem to be any point in laughing at Ron right now. The hot water beckoned, and his stomach grumbled. He realized that the sooner he showered, the sooner he could go down to the Great Hall and gobble up a tasty shepherd's pie.

_Mmmm. Pie,_ Harry thought as he stripped off his stinky t-shirt and training pants, stepped out of his trainers, and took off his socks. Then came his underwear, although not willingly. He had to practically peel it off. He did this with his back to Ron –modesty was still a virtue, after all, even though they usually dressed next to each other in the changing rooms.

He quickly grabbed a towel which some thoughtful house-elf had left at the end of his bed, wrapped it around his midsection, grabbed his meager shower supplies and made for the left bathroom. The Gryffindor sixth-years had earned the right to semi-private showers, instead of the communal ones on the fourth floor, so their dormitory now boasted two bathrooms. The left one served Harry and Ron. The right one was slightly bigger and served Dean, Neville, and Seamus.

"I'll hurry," Harry said, and closed the door.

* * *

"Oh, please don't," muttered Ron, as soon as he was alone.

The room was silent, save him, but every noise seemed to have jumped in volume about six decibels. He heard Harry thumping around in the bathroom, a muffled curse as he stubbed his toe on something, and only relaxed when he heard the soft _flump_ of a towel hitting the floor and a spray of water.

The countdown had begun. Harry was very fast in the bathroom. He always had been, and usually this was just one more trait that endeared him to Ron. After all, he had shared a bathroom with Ginny "One Hour Shower" Weasley for way too long. He was quite grateful to be roommates with a bloke who knew that a shower was for cleaning yourself up, not relaxing or singing or "finding your happy place," or any such rubbish.

That water would keep going for three minutes, tops. Ron launched himself at Harry's bed and began to pick through his filthy workout clothes, and finally found his training pants. The back left pocket was holding something very hard and square. Ron drew it out.

It was indeed what he had thought: a silver hip flask, with a gorgeous engraving of a Phoenix on one side. He had to stop himself from whistling, because as drinking artillery went, this thing was truly a work of art. He gently shook it. Something sloshed around inside it, and it was way too heavy and gooey to be pumpkin juice.

He ran to his night stand and ripped open his odds-and-ends drawer, filled to the brim with rubber bands, various pieces of twisted metal, interesting rocks he'd found, and a whole bunch of tiny flagons with stoppers … novelty items that Fred and George had given him over the summer. When the flagons were opened, they released something amusing, and then could be used to store things.

Hoping against hope that he hadn't picked an exploding one, Ron grabbed the nearest flagon, used his hip to close the drawer again, and uncorked it one-handed. A misty green dragon shot out, turned its beady yellow eyes on Ron, and growled. Then it reared back (Ron gasped) and instead of breathing fire … sprayed water in his face. Ron sputtered and then frowned at the creature through his now dripping fringe. The dragon pointed at him with one clawed hand, laughed a low, growly, reptilian laugh, and disappeared.

"Stupid dragon," Ron muttered.

But at least the damn thing had been reasonably quiet, and now the flagon was empty. He quickly uncapped Harry's flask, and poured out a tiny bit of violently purple stuff into his minuscule container. It was the consistency of watery honey. Ron was very careful not to spill. He corked the flagon, put it under his pillow, and capped Harry's flask again.

The water stopped.

Heart pounding, he thrust Harry's flask back into his pants pocket and messed up the clothes again. Not a moment too soon. Harry wandered out of the bathroom with his towel around his waist, accompanied by a trail of steam. His glasses were completely fogged, so he didn't see Ron back away from his bed. By the time he stretched, wiped off his glasses and nodded to indicate the bathroom was free, Ron had gathered up his supplies and was pulling his t-shirt off over his head.

"Go ahead," said Harry.

"Thanks," Ron mumbled.

He headed for the bathroom, trying to look as unsuspicious as he could. Harry's voice stopped him at the door.

"Er, Ron? You're all wet."

_Oh, shit. _"Yes. Yes I am," Ron said, and covered his nervousness with a laugh. "Fred and George sent me a dragon that sprays you with water and disappears. Thought I'd try it out, since I was getting in the shower, anyway."

This wasn't exactly the truth, but it came close enough. Harry, fortunately, seemed to buy it. He gave a non-committal "hmm" and began to throw his dirty laundry in the hamper … except for his pants, which were still on the bed.

Ron ran in, stripped, showered quickly, and burst out a few minutes later, heading for his bed and trying to control his shakes. Both boys changed into clean clothes. Harry seemed to be as quiet as he usually was these days, but it wasn't doing anything for Ron's nerves. As the seconds ticked by, he grew more desperate. Harry was throwing on a jumper, still in full sight of his bed. There was no way he could snag the flask now without Harry seeing and getting suspicious. And he knew he they would leave together, as was their habit. Damn it!

But suddenly, inspiration struck. Ron deliberately put on only a shirt, and walked out with Harry. They padded down to the Great Hall in companionable silence, Harry lost in thought and Ron waiting for his moment.

Halfway down the stairs, Ron decided it was time to make his move. He groaned.

Harry turned to him. "What?"

"I forgot," Ron said, putting on his best 'absent-minded-friend' voice. "It's cold in the Great Hall and I forgot my jumper. Honestly, it's like a little bit leaks out every day," he said, tapping his head. "I have to go back to the Tower. See you in a bit?"

"Sure, all right," said Harry, and continued on his way.

Ron watched his friend lope off down the stairs. Then he whipped around and made time for the dormitory. If Harry had discovered the flagon while he was in the shower, it was all over …

But it seemed it was not. Ron burst into the room, nearly hyperventilating, and lifted his pillow. Miracle of miracles, the flagon full of purple goo was still there. He pocketed it. Thank Merlin for a little dumb luck and a lot of ingenuity. Now all he had to do was meet Hermione tonight in the library and give her the sample for analysis.

He quickly grabbed his jumper and pulled it on as he left. His heart no longer pounding, his breathing no longer labored, he realized that he had just possibly pulled off the sneakiest thing he had ever done. But there was no time to gloat. He smoothed down his flaming red hair, blew out a deep breath, and shut the dormitory door.

Dinner was calling.

TBC


	5. IV Discovery

**Reviewers!** **Angel**, you raised an interesting point about McGonagall. In all honesty, I doubt she would ask Harry if something was wrong … not because she doesn't care, but because she has seven million things to do as an instructor and has other things to worry about besides a depressed teenager. **Infall**, thankees! I appreciate the support. And **E.A.V.**, Ron was being rather Slytherin, wasn't he? LOL I thought it would be fun to let him go on a "mission" like that. Glad you enjoyed.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR: Discovery**

It was 7:30, and the Great Hall had emptied somewhat. Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table to find Harry tucking into his shepherd's pie and Hermione eating some lemon rice and salad. The rest of the Quidditch team was there too, most of them looking scrubbed raw and sitting in a row opposite Ginny. Hungry as hell, as usual, Ron made a space for himself on Harry's right by shoving little Marjorie out of the way. She squeaked and crashed into Frank. Hermione and Ginny both threw him dirty looks.

In the spirit of "acting natural," he pretended not to notice. He pulled four dishes within reach and grabbed a pie, some salad, rice, and a small bowl of soup in less than ten seconds.

"Hi, Ron," Harry said with his mouth full. It sounded more like "Ha, Raw."

Hermione, seated across from Harry, gave him a rather disapproving glance. Her mouth was also quite full. She swallowed just enough to talk and said, "Don't talk with your mouth full, Harry, it's rude!"

"Says you, you chipmunk!" Ron shot at her, and began to attack his pie.

"Pig," she volleyed back effortlessly, taking a deliberately dainty bite of salad. Only after swallowing did she ask, "Have a good practice?"

"Yeah, actually," Ron said.

He knew exactly what Hermione was doing. She was trying to keep the conversation light, to keep Harry from suspecting their investigation. So far, a combination of not seeing him much and sticking to safe topics (classes, Quidditch, the occasional bit of Snape-bashing, etc.) had worked like the proverbial charm.

"What do you think, Harry?" Ron asked, nudging his best friend. "Think we have a chance at the cup this year with such a young team?" (Marjorie, still miffed at being shoved, stuck her tongue out at him.)

"Course we do," Harry said. "You're captain. How can we fail?"

Ron, having known Harry for so long, took this as a compliment and a show of support, in spite of Harry's unsmiling face and deadpan voice. His bright green eyes looked a bit glazed behind his glasses and seemed to be stuck at half-mast. Ron ignored all three of these eerie details for the moment, willed himself not to panic, and beamed.

"There's the old team spirit!" he said, and clapped Harry on the back. "How's the homework coming?"

"All right, I guess," Harry said, still with that strange, calm tone. "I'm actually going out to the greenhouses in a few minutes to work with Neville. He needs some help potting a few plants and somehow he suckered me into doing it."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Think it'll take a long time?"

"Well, that depends on Neville's definition of 'a few plants.'"

Hermione smiled at Harry's gentle dig. Harry did not. Hermione's smile became rather fixed, and then she dropped it completely when Harry turned back to his plate. She took the opportunity to share a very concerned look with Ron.

After that, there was very little conversation between the three. A few agonizing minutes passed with Hermione and Ron shooting each other glances and Harry finishing his dinner before Neville came over and tugged him up from the table, prattling on and on about Sour Spimmifidae and how much Harry would enjoy the next few hours. Ron and Hermione watched them go. Neville's buoyancy was very striking against Harry's closed expression.

Ron surreptitiously felt the flagon in his pocket and looked to his right. All the Quidditch players were tucking into their food or laughing at each other (Jim had somehow managed to decorate his shirt with rice and Ginny was scolding him). He looked left. A few white-faced fifth and seventh-years were glumly focused on eating their treacle tart, watching their plates as though eyeing their last meal.

_Mmm. Dessert_, Ron thought. And then … _No! Mustn't get distracted! _

Ron looked back at Hermione.

"Library," he hissed at her, so quietly that only she could hear. "Now."

Hermione blinked at him, her honey-brown eyes wide and her mouth so full of rice that her cheeks were pooching out.

"Chipmunk!" he added at his usual volume, and was quite pleased when she knitted her eyebrows together and went pink in annoyance.

* * *

Harry was halfway to the greenhouses with Neville when his right arm began to shake. Clamping it to his side didn't help. Focusing on walking didn't help, either. As the twitch spread to his shoulder, Harry gritted his teeth.

"And the fruit they bear is bright pink and ten times more sour than a lemon!" Neville said. "Thanks so much for helping me with this, Harry."

"No problem," Harry said tightly.

Suddenly, the world tilted to the left and he stumbled. Neville, however, took no notice of this. He was talking again, about … something. Harry couldn't pay attention anymore. He knew he needed another sip. Damn. How many did that make today? Seven? Eight? That little voice inside him said that this couldn't be good.

But unless he wanted to show Neville his impression of an epileptic, he needed a quaff. Now.

"Be right back," he mumbled, and stumbled off towards Greenhouse 3, leaving a very confused Neville behind him.

* * *

"All right, what happened?" Hermione asked, as she sat down with Ron in the library.

Ron, most annoyingly, was grinning at her and saying nothing. If she knew Ron, and she did _indeed_ know Ron, then this was part of his triumphant "I know something you don't know" routine. But she didn't have the patience for it right now.

Some of her inner snarl seemed to come through on her face, because Ron immediately stopped acting smug and plunked down a tiny flagon in front of her.

"I just solved our case," he said.

Hermione peered at the tiny flask. The liquid inside was violently purple, like nothing she'd ever seen. She scratched her head.

"What is this, Ron? Where did you find it?"

Ron took that as his cue and launched into his tale of thievery and derring-do.

"And whatever this stuff is," he finished, "It's changing him. He was so happy before, and now he just looks … so glum."

_So glum. _Ron's words echoed around in Hermione's brain for a moment. Ron finding Harry's hip flask (and getting a sample of its contents) was certainly a major discovery, but something about that phrase was tickling the edge of her mind. It was the key to figuring out what was in that vial, she just knew it. She felt her insides get very tight. Judging from Ron's concerned face, she figured some of her anxiety was showing.

"So glum," she repeated … and then her eyes flared open. Of course! That was it!

It had happened … a little over a month ago, now. The fourth day of classes had just ended, and Harry had been looking depressed, staring at the ground more than usual and not saying much. Hermione had an inkling of the reason, but Ron, being his usual obtuse self, had clapped Harry on the back.

"_Come on, Harry, snap out of it. It's a beautiful day, classes are over, you're back where you belong, and Dumbledore reinstated you to play Quidditch. Stop looking so glum, it's bad for morale!" _

_Harry glared at Ron for a moment, and then put on a large, phony, million-watt grin that didn't reach his angry green eyes. "Better?" he asked through clenched teeth. _

_Ron frowned. "Look, you!"_

_Hermione quickly stepped between them before it escalated. _

"_Harry, Ron didn't mean that. Ron, shut up and go away." _

"_Wha…?" Ron spluttered._

"_You heard me," Hermione said. "Stop talking. Go up to the dormitory and trim your toenails, or something. Shoo!" _

_Ron looked very annoyed with her, but finally did as he was asked. Hermione turned to Harry and smiled. _

"_I'm going to the library to start my homework. Would you like to come with?" _

_Harry seemed puzzled at the invitation, but nodded. They both set off down the stone corridor and fought their way through the throng of students. _

"_It's the perfect place, really, the library," Hermione commented. "Brilliant for finding a bit of solitude away from loud, silly Keepers."_

_Harry laughed quietly. _

"_Plus," she added, "It's got all the answers." _

And Harry … it was so fast that she nearly missed it. In fact, up until this moment, she hadn't even given it a second thought. Harry had gotten a strange look in his eyes for a microsecond, like he'd just had a brilliant idea.

"_Yes, it does." _

Hermione shook her head, willing herself back into the present, and stared at Ron.

"I have to speak to Madam Pince," she said, and stood up.

* * *

Ron was baffled. First, instead of complimenting him on a job well done, Hermione had just spaced out for a few seconds. And now she was insisting on speaking to the Head Librarian, a woman everyone else in the school avoided at all costs.

"But … But …" was all he managed before Hermione jumped up and ran for the Reference Desk.

Ron swiveled around in his seat to watch her go. Hermione slowed to a respectful walk, stopped at the desk, and got the attention of Madame Pince. He wasn't near enough to hear the conversation, but Hermione appeared to be wheedling (quite effectively) with the librarian.

Madame Pince looked down her nose at Hermione, sighed, crooked a twisted, arthritic finger at her, and opened a gate behind her. Ron's jaw dropped. Madame Pince was letting Hermione into the Restricted Section … and then turning back around, sitting down at her desk, and continuing her work. She wasn't even _watching_ Hermione! What in the hell was going on? He stood up for a better look.

Hermione looked to her left and right, mumbled something, and a little ball of yellow light zipped out of her pocket. It dashed hither and thither around the Restricted Section, and Hermione followed it around, walking slowly and keeping her eyes on it so as not to attract attention. It finally alit on a musty old tome on the back shelf, second rack, and vanished. Hermione wasted no time in picking up the book.

Ron saw her open the book and mumble something else. Clearly, this girl's spellwork was second to none when it came to subtlety. Madame Pince hadn't looked up _once_. This time, a little green light appeared, but vanished just as quickly. The pages of the book, however … it looked like a sudden wind had sprung up. They were turning by themselves, finally stopping about three-quarters through the book. There was a small burst of sparkles, which Hermione stared at for a moment as if analyzing them.

She gazed down at the book, then stiffened and turned very white. Even from where he was, Ron could see her eyes getting big as saucers. She mumbled one final spell, waited for a moment, and then put the book back soundlessly. He watched as she smoothed her hair back in a pathetic attempt to look calm, walked past Madame Pince with a nod of thanks and came back over to him.

* * *

Hermione sat down across from Ron, pale and shaking. What she'd just seen in the Restricted Section had really frightened her. She assumed Ron had figured this out, from the way he was staring at her. He'd want an explanation.

"This is not good," she said quietly. "This is not good at all."

"What's not good?" Ron asked.

But Hermione was hardly listening. Clutched in her hand was the MagiCopy she'd made from the book. Her _Prosekwami_ and _Legiskwat _spells had never led her wrong before. And the entry she'd copied… The pieces were starting to fall into place, and the picture they painted was terrifying. But she had to make absolutely sure she was right before she told Ron anything.

"I need you to do something for me," she said, and he blinked at her. "Harry's …" she checked her watch distractedly. "It's only 8:15. Harry's still stuck with Neville, I presume?"

"P-Probably," Ron said. He sounded bewildered. "You know how he gets with Herbology. He'll keep Harry there for an hour at least."

"Good," she said, "Because you have to go to your dormitory, and I mean _right now_. Make sure you're alone, and see if you can _Accio_…" She took the MagiCopy out of her pocket and read, "Powdered Billywig stings, Firewhisky, and Opal sugar."

* * *

Ron stared. And stared.

_It's official_, he thought. _Hermione Granger has lost her mind_. First she was flipping out over some book, and now she wanted him to go into his own bedroom and search for what?

Billywig, in any form, was illegal. Firewhisky was such a strong spirit that three shots were guaranteed to produce a flame-belching drunk. And Opal sugar was supposed to be a great headache remedy if mixed into tea, but it was so ridiculously expensive that the cost outweighed the benefits. Why on earth did Hermione think he would find any of that rubbish in the dormitory?

"You're having me on, right?"

She was glaring at him. "Do I look like I'm having you on?" she hissed. "Take your satchel with you. And hurry, Ron! Harry's life could depend on it!"

Ron didn't like the sound of that. He thought it best to obey. Grabbing his satchel and standing up, he watched as Hermione pulled a giant tome out of her own bookbag, took some parchment from her pocket, and spread it over her book. Ron gave her one final glance before trotting out of the library.

* * *

Five minutes later Hermione was studying her MagiCopy, glancing back and forth between it and the tiny flagon of purple stuff at her right elbow and getting increasingly nervous. She looked up to see Ron walking back in. His satchel seemed to be thicker and heavier than usual, and he was completely white in the face. Hermione pointed at the back shelves.

He saw her signal, nodded ever so slightly, and kept walking away from her table. Hermione left her stuff out and waited for a few moments after Ron had left the scene. Then she got up and followed him, hiding her pieces of parchment under her school robes.

She found Ron pacing back and forth at the end of the very last row. There was only one faint light on back here, and it cast eerie shadows on both their faces as they looked at each other. Ron plopped down on the floor and sat down cross-legged. Hermione joined him.

With a shocked expression, almost like he was watching someone else do this, he pulled three things out of his satchel: a mason jar full of crushed Billywig stings, followed by a large bottle of Firewhisky and a small, clear sack of granulated, purply-blue Opal sugar.

"H-How did you know he'd be hiding this stuff?" Ron asked quietly, in a sort of awed voice. "I summoned it from the craziest places – the bed canopy, behind the wardrobe, in one of his shoes…" He hung his head and then looked up at her, totally lost. "And this was just a tiny bit of what he's got. I put most of it _back_."

Hermione looked at the items on the rug and felt her throat get tight and dry. She whispered "_Lumos!_" Her wand tip ignited, illuminating Ron's pale, terrified face.

"This is serious," he said, motioning at all the stuff spread out on the ground between them. "I mean, the Firewhisky and the sugar we can pass off, we can say Harry's got expensive tastes. But the bloomin' _Billywig _… What the hell is going on?" he finished, a bit too loudly.

"Keep your voice down!" Hermione hissed. "And put that rubbish away before Madame Pince pops round and sees it!"

Ron didn't need to be told twice. He put all three items back in his satchel and closed it in the blink of an eye. Hermione, seeing there was space in front of her now, tucked a strand of bushy brown hair behind one ear and spread out the MagiCopies on the ground. She looked up.

Ron was staring at her, his face hard, his arms crossed. "'Mione, explain. Now."

"All right," she replied. "I'll just … I'll just start at the beginning then, shall I?"

TBC

* * *

A tidbit: the spells that Hermione used in the Restricted Section will be explained later, but for you "I like to mess with language" geeks out there (Spell Inventors, Unite!), _Prosekwami _is a mess of two words, one of them misspelled – amicus (friend) and prosequi (to pursue). _Legiskwat_ is also a blend of two words: legis (is read) and quam (how much). So it basically translates as, "How much was read?"

A trivial, small question, perhaps, but you won't be sorry that Hermione asked it … or that she found the answer.

The next chappie will be along by Friday, my lovelies. Until we meet again. :D


	6. V Fizz

**Reviewers! E.A.V.**: Ron is dense, but that's why I love him. He's such a great source of comedy. And when he actually does something smart, it's a nice shock. **Angel**, you asked a very good question about the invisibility cloak. I'm thinking that Harry just had bad luck that one time trying to sneak in. Poor bastard probably wandered up to the only screaming book in the entire section and pulled it from the shelf. In my universe, "chipmunk" is not and never will be a pet name. LOL **Shiba**: Yes, I'm evil. I'm sorry! Forgive me? (bats eyes ) **ImAPoet**: LOL I know I said Friday, but it's not my fault. The site was down on April 1st. Glad you're enjoying! Here's more.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE: Fizz**

"Just don't tell me he's doing Billywig," Ron said quietly. He looked a bit dazed, like he was still reeling from the sheer volume of the stuff he'd found in the dormitory. "That doesn't make sense."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, Australian wizards get those things to sting them so they get hysterically happy and float," she replied just as quietly. The less noise they made in the library, the better.

"Exactly. If Harry was a 'stinger,' he'd be keeping the things alive to get the full effect, and he'd floating all over the place, wouldn't he? So don't even bother accusing him of that."

Hermione blinked at him. "He's not doing Billywig straight, Ron. He'd be found out in about four minutes and thrown out of school. No, I'm afraid he's doing something far more dangerous."

"What?"

Hermione licked her lips. Ron was liable to explode at her pronouncement, but the evidence trail was too much to ignore.

"Harry's been brewing a potion called _Vivus Vitae_," she said slowly. "But you and I both know it by its other name." She paused and bit her lip.

"And that other name would be?" Ron asked.

"Fizz."

Ron's jaw dropped. "WHAT!" he hissed. "That's madness! That's a complete fantasy! Idiots only tell that story to other idiots so they can watch them eff up and poison themselves!"

"Of course they eff up and poison themselves," Hermione snarled. "But they usually don't have the recipe. Harry, on the other hand, does. _Prosekwami Harry Potter _led me straight to the book Harry found. And then I said _Legiskwat_ over it. The first two pages on _Vivus Vitae_ were read and magically copied, edging on a month ago. Now, knowing Harry, he probably committed the damn potion instructions to memory and destroyed the evidence, but my spells have never fooled me before. That's what he's making, Ron."

"Load of dung," Ron fired back. "If Harry were making Fizz he'd be dead by now! I've heard the stories. Hell, _you've_ heard the stories!"

"Harry's heard the stories too," Hermione pointed out. "But instead of putting him off, it gave him hope. He went looking for his answer, Ron, and he thought he found it in this book! He's been making Fizz and using it for nearly three weeks now!"

Ron shook his head.

"Add up the evidence," Hermione continued gently. "Look at it logically. Dried Billywig, Opal sugar, and Firewhisky are the major ingredients in the potion. You found them hidden in your dormitory. And we both know that Harry has been less than excited about life since June."

Ron stared disgustedly at the ground. Hermione could practically see the gears turning in his head as he miserably felt the evidence click into place.

The rumor had been circulating around Hogwarts for years, so Harry was bound to have heard it at some point. It was the sort of thing that most schoolchildren listened to with rapt attention and didn't repeat if there were any adults nearby.

According to the stories, powdered dried Billywig stings, sugar, and Firewhisky, when combined in a precise 1-2-3 ratio with other ingredients and stirred counter-clockwise for three minutes, produced "Fizz," a sweet, thick, and _highly_ illegal draught that could lift flagging spirits for days at a time. It had the power to kick those teenage blues and supposedly banished nightmares, too. And since no one at school was able to procure dried Billywig stings or Firewhisky (with one notable exception), it had become the stuff of gossip and legend.

But every story had its counter-story, and the Fizz counter-story invariably ended in a fatality. The brewer (the person's sex and name were constantly changing) screwed up the recipe, drank it, and died of poisoning.

"I don't believe this," Ron said. "I mean, how can he even make it? Harry's terrible at Potions, he says so all the time!"

"You've got some nerve saying Harry's terrible. You didn't even get into NEWT level!" said Hermione. "Harry's pretty good, he just gets nervous when Snape's around, that's all. And I can imagine that with the proper ingredients and enough motivation, you'd be surprised at what Harry can do with a cauldron."

Ron shook his head. "This makes no bloody sense."

Hermione ignored his profanity. "It makes all the sense in the world. Remember first week, and you were being your usual insensitive self and told Harry to stop looking so glum?"

"Hey!"

She ignored him. "And remember when those packages arrived for him second week and he said they were jumpers?"

Ron nodded blankly, still not cottoning on. Hermione huffed in frustration.

"He was lying, Ron! Harry ordered Billywig, Firewhiskey and Opal sugar, probably under an assumed name or three, and since then he's been casting _Multiplicory_ to ensure a good supply, because Fizz doesn't keep at all. It has to be brewed nearly every day. He probably got carried away with the spell, though. That's why you found so much rubbish in your dorm."

Ron huffed angrily. Hermione pressed on.

"Third week, Monday. Harry smiled like a loon in Charms and he danced with me in the halls! Remember?"

"No, no, no," Ron mumbled, putting his face in his hands. "My best friend is not an addict. I'm not blind, Hermione, I would have seen something."

"You _have_ seen something," she said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You said it yourself, two weeks ago, now. 'Stop looking so bloody cheerful, Harry.'"

Ron stared at his lap resolutely and crossed his arms. Hermione pulled her hand away and watched him, his whole lean frame tense with anger and worry, waiting for him to come around. It seemed an eternity before he finally let his shoulders slump and he looked up at her.

"What the eff are we going to do?" he asked abruptly. He also looked very angry and helpless, which did not please Hermione at all. "Harry's … Harry's …" He couldn't finish.

"Self-medicating," Hermione said sadly. "His godfather is dead and he hasn't grieved, Ron, not at all."

"The Order said to let him alone about it!" Ron said.

"I know what the Order said," Hermione replied evenly. "And I let him alone, too. But Ron, he needed us, and instead of trying to talk to him about it, we just did what we were told and left him adrift. He probably tore himself up about it all summer."

She tried to catch his eye, looking for some hint of affirmation, but her red-headed friend had suddenly found a bit of floor very interesting.

"We both messed up, Ron," she finished. "And now we have to make things right."

"How?" Ron asked, finally meeting her eyes. "We don't even know what's wrong! I mean, what if … what if we're off on this whole thing? Maybe Fizz isn't really bad at all."

Hermione recognized the panic behind his faulty reasoning. She let it slide. The sooner she made Ron see how serious this was, the better.

"Let me show you something," she said.

She drew Ron's attention to the MagiCopies between them, specifically to the first two pages. Ron cricked his neck to look at them right-side-up. The top of the first page was titled "VIVUS VITAE," followed by a long column of ingredients and instructions. On the second page the title read, "BENEFITS."

"These two pages are what Harry read and copied," Hermione explained.

"All right," said Ron. "What's your point?"

Hermione then motioned to the other three pages about this draught. At the top of the first of these it said in small, ornate letters, "SIDE EFFECTS / RISKS."

"_This_," Hermione said, pointing, "Is what Harry _didn't_ read."

She leaned sat up straight and crossed her arms.

"Well, I haven't read this either," said Ron. "What is it?"

"Oh, just a few warnings," Hermione said sarcastically. "Considerable brewing skill required, do not attempt without supervision, overdose and/or brewing mistakes may cause _death_, blah blah blah. You know," she spat, "The usual."

Ron suddenly looked a bit sick. "G-Go on," he said.

"Fizz is a Type-D _Cerrus_ potion. These sorts of potions work by closing things off, and in the case of Fizz, it shuts off emotions. See, it starts by clamping down on the really painful stuff: guilt, anger, frustration. But it's very addictive, and it's so sneaky that someone is likely to abuse it and not even _know_, which just lets it work even faster."

"And?" asked Ron.

"And," Hermione continued, "The more of it gets into you, the more emotions it locks away. Eventually it moves on to emotions that aren't on an 'even keel,' like ecstatic joy, and then it moves all the way down to love and hope."

Ron scratched his head. Hermione tucked her hair behind her ears and went on.

"You see, the drinker starts out ridiculously happy, because he's free from negative emotions. Understand?"

Ron nodded.

"Right, that was Harry three weeks ago. Then, the potion gets rid of any tremendously positive emotions too, and the drinker 'evens out.' Yes?"

Ron nodded again.

"That was Harry more recently. And then …" she licked her lips. "And then the poisoning begins."

"What?"

"Well, the potion in and of itself isn't poisonous, but as more of it enters the body, it leaves behind deposits in the bloodstream that _become_ poisonous very fast."

"W-What happens next?" Ron asked.

"Tremors," Hermione said. "They start out small and get more and more violent. There was a little anecdote in here somewhere. Some anonymous patient called it 'the shakes.' But the horrible thing is that people mistake their shakes as a _need_ for Fizz, instead of a sign that something's wrong."

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, following her logic. "So they overdose even faster," he said.

"But that's not the worst of it," Hermione went on. "If the drinker overdoses on Fizz and hasn't succumbed to the toxins, then this rubbish pulls off its last trick: it destroys the emotional centers in the brain, leaving the person _unable to feel anything at all_."

There was a very pregnant pause.

"Merlin's balls," Ron said finally. "And Harry's been on this for three weeks?"

"Nearly," said Hermione. "Have you heard of anyone living longer than that on this stuff?"

"The longest I ever heard was two," Ron replied. His face was ashen and his gaze dropped to the floor. "How could I have been so blind?"

"You weren't alone," Hermione said, putting a hand on his knee. "And I'm really scared, Ron. Harry is poisoning himself, and he doesn't even realize it. At dinner tonight, he looked like he'd very nearly reached his limit."

"Why, did you see him shaking?"

"No. He's probably hiding that from everyone. But Ron, he looked so …"

"Glum, I know."

"Glum?" Hermione shot at him. "Ron, he looked _dead_. Have you seen his eyes? There's no _life_ left in them anymore. If he keeps this up, he'll either drop dead of blood poisoning or be left with permanent brain damage."

Hermione hated to be the one to air the truth, and Ron hated to hear it. There was a very unpleasant silence for a few moments as Ron stared angrily at the ground and Hermione bit her lip and gathered her nerve. She had a shaky plan, but she'd need his help with it the whole way.

"We have to help him," she said softly.

TBC


	7. VI Disaster

**Reviewers! Stahchild**, thanks so much for the praise. I'm glad you find this entertaining and reasonably realistic. :) **Infall and Shiba**: you guys … Wow. Thanks for keeping up with the fic and offering so much support along the way. **EAV**: I'm glad you like the dialogue! I've been working very hard on it. **Angel**: Heck, yes, the Trio sticks together. And "Merlin's balls," as funny as it is, is not mine. It seems to be a generalized Harry Potter author-ish thing, because I've read it all over the internet, but I think I first read it in Aspen in the Sunlight's A Year like None Other, a mammoth work (still in progress) that I highly recommend. She's got her own Tauri archive for it, but you can link to it from her author profile on this site.

Anyway, here's more!

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX: Disaster**

"We have to act, you mean," Ron said. "Right, count me in."

Hermione nodded. "Good. Well, fortunately, we have something on our side besides ourselves: an antidote."

She pointed at the last page, and Ron held it up near her wand. The last column on the page was titled "PERSPECTUS NOVA." It listed ingredients and instructions, and the very last paragraph had its own curious title: "AFTERCARE."

"_Un_fortunately, it's hellishly difficult to brew and it takes 15 hours to mature. And the, er, patient, as it were, needs to have stopped taking Fizz to get it to work. So I think before we act, we should get a supply of it and hide it in my dormitory," she said.

"Why should we use _your_ dormitory? Ours isn't good enough?" Ron asked, sounding a bit affronted.

Hermione stared at him. "We're using _my_ dormitory because it's boy-proof, you twit. We can't let Harry get his hands on this stuff! Honestly, didn't your little topple down the stairs last year teach you _anything_?"

Ron turned red. "All right, fine! One dose does the job, then?" he asked, changing the subject.

Hermione snorted. "Try six. It needs to be administered three times a day for two days. After the last dose, the description says something about an explosion of some kind, but it's not really clear. It doesn't sound fatal, but the description is so vague… And the two days leading up to it is no walk in the park, apparently. One of these anonymous people in here called the treatment period '48 hours in hell.'"

Ron made a face. "How are we going to give it to him?"

"Slip it into his drink, I think." Ron made a very sour face, but she pressed on. "Look, I hate being so … Slytherin … about this, but he just _can't_ get wise to us until this is over. If he resists the treatment, there could be real problems."

Ron ran a hand through his hair and mumbled something grouchy and incoherent.

"And we have to act immediately. Harry could very easily kill himself or worse, get caught and thrown out of school."

* * *

It was a mark of the situation's seriousness that Ron didn't comment on the order of Hermione's worries. He wasn't happy about tricking Harry, but at the moment he and Hermione were completely in agreement. They had to move on this, and they had to move _now_. 

"Do we have what we need for the antidote?"

Hermione bit her lip. "Not everything. Three of the ingredients can only come from … specialized storage."

Ron decided to ignore that remark for the moment. "So he needs two days for the withdrawl …"

"And a quiet place to sleep and recover when it's over," Hermione said.

"Today's Wednesday. We should gather ingredients and start brewing early tomorrow morning, then," Ron said heavily. He didn't relish the idea of sneaking around behind Harry's back (or waking up early), but it had to be done. "Then Harry can take the stuff on Friday and Saturday and sleep it off on Saturday night."

Hermione was completely in "clinical" mode. "I need help gathering the ingredients, but you leave the brewing to me. As for Harry, he'll need some privacy. How will you get the dormitory to yourselves on Saturday night?"

"Oh, that'll be easy!" Ron said, considerably cheered up by the fact that he didn't have to brew the potion. "Dean and Seamus are crushing on Parvati and Padma, and Lavender goes everywhere Parvati goes. If I ask Neville to take Ginny with him, they can all go to Hogsmeade. I can get the blokes and the blabbermouths off the premises, and no one will be the wiser."

Again, it was a mark of the situation's seriousness that Hermione didn't yell at Ron for referring to her roommates as blabbermouths.

* * *

Severus Snape was sitting at his desk in the potions classroom, ignoring the large stack of student essays in front of him and staring off into space, twiddling his quill. Anyone who might have happened by and glimpsed this would have assumed he was momentarily looking up from covering students' work with scathing, ego-shredding, red-inked comments. But this was no mere glance. Indeed, the Potions Master had been stuck in this pose, his long, hooked nose slightly in the air and his dark, cold eyes half out of focus, for quite a few minutes. Snape was pondering. 

Specifically, he was pondering one of the most annoying people he'd ever had the misfortune to teach: Harry Potter. Something was just not right with that boy these days, and it was proving to be even more of a frustration to Snape than his usual dealings with the brat.

Snape began to play with his quill again. His eyes headed south, and through his greasy black fringe he registered first-year Amelia Pinckney's latest incomprehensible bit of gibberish, a four-paragraph "treatise" on Strengthening Solution. But he wasn't really looking at it.

If Snape was honest with himself (and he always made a point to be), pissing off Harry Potter was what he looked forward to on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The boy couldn't help it; he was just such a satisfying verbal punch-bag. It was always a perverse pleasure to say something nasty to him in class, if only to watch Lily's eyes blaze with anger behind James' glasses. It was cathartic. It was a release-valve from the pressures of teaching and spying and leading Slytherin house. Hell, it was _fun_.

But Potter just hadn't been himself lately, and Snape was very irked. Why, just yesterday he'd tossed off a few choice words about James Potter, _in class_, and those bright green eyes failed to narrow. That pale face remained impassive and calm. There was no response to any taunting anymore. In fact, there didn't seem to be much of a response to _anything_ anymore, except instructions.

That was perhaps the most disturbing thing. Potter had a temper, everybody knew that, but it had mysteriously vanished, leaving in its place a focus so sharp that every one of his potions lately had been, well, spectacular. As foul as the descriptor seemed to Snape (particularly in describing anything remotely related to Potter) it was the only word that would do.

"How is he doing it?" Snape mumbled.

And there it was. The 1,000-Galleon question. Because Potter _had_ to be doing something, and knowing that little swot it was something a) stupid, b) dangerous, or c) some combination thereof.

A sudden gong noise caught his attention and he looked at the clock on the far wall. It was 10 o'clock – hardly late, but Snape could feel the long day catching up with him. The Potter situation could wait. What he needed right now was a little time to unwind. Perhaps skewering the writings of some intellectual Ravenclaws in his chambers, near a roaring fire with cocoa and biscuits close at hand, would suit him better than working in his lonely, cold dungeon classroom.

_That's the ticket_, Snape decided as he stood and gathered the essays into a neat pile. Just the thought of a hot drink, followed by clean pajamas and a warm bed, brought a tiny smile to his tired, sallow face.

"Maybe even a nightcap," he muttered. "Merlin knows I could use it."

With a wave of his wand he sealed the door behind him that led to the storage area, and a few more wand flicks locked all the various and sundry cabinets around the room. He left quickly, his black robes billowing out behind him, stopping only to spell the classroom shut before he turned on his heel and headed for his chambers.

* * *

Harry staggered through the portrait-hole at quarter past nine. He clambered into the common room just ahead of Neville, who was still chattering away about how beneficial it would be to start an orchard of Sour Spimmifidae. Both of them were dusty and their faces were streaked with dirt and sweat. 

Hermione and Ron were sitting in front of the fire. They both looked up a tad nervously when Harry came in. He acknowledged them with a nod and went for the stairs, intent on having a shower (and another shot before bed), when a harsh whispering reached his ears. He turned around for a brief moment and caught the oddest sight: Hermione looking stern and Ron looking slightly hysterical.

Deciding they were probably still fighting like they were at dinner, Harry figured it was best to ignore it. He and Neville walked up the stairs together, Neville babbling away happily and Harry nodding at intervals, pretending to pay attention.

* * *

Quarter to midnight, and the castle was freezing. The walls were pitch-black between the torches, and Ron grunted in discomfort as he moved. He and Hermione, both in their pajamas, were creeping along together under Harry's invisibility cloak. Harry had no idea they were using it, as Ron had waited until he heard Harry snoring before "liberating" it from his friend's trunk. However, since Ron was so much taller than Hermione, he had to crouch awkwardly to stay hidden underneath it and his knees were not happy at this prospect. They had both started complaining a few minutes ago. 

To make matters worse, it was horribly cold, and wearing only a patched dressing gown over his nightclothes wasn't stopping the shivers. He huddled closer to Hermione for a bit of warmth.

"I _still_ think this is a bad idea," he whispered. "And I can't believe that _you_, of all people, actually had it."

"Will you shut up?" Hermione hissed. "You'll make Filch come running, or worse, that dratted cat. We can't get caught down here!"

Ron stopped talking. Hermione was right. True, they were both Prefects, but this was _not_ their patrol area, and they would have a hell of a time explaining themselves to Filch if he cornered them. Mercifully though, they soon came to a stop. Ron gulped as he eyed the massive, heavy doors to the dungeon classroom where Snape taught Potions.

"For the last time," he asked quietly, "Are you _sure_ this is the only way?"

"Positive," Hermione replied grimly. She stepped out from under the cloak and became visible. "You sit down by the door. Pull the cloak over yourself and keep watch."

Ron nodded. Hermione had arranged to do the sneaking this time, since she had already proven an adept potion ingredients thief their second year. He, in turn, plopped down on the floor, pulled his aching knees up to his chest, and covered himself completely with the cloak.

* * *

Ron disappeared and Hermione looked at the heavy door with a gulp. It was locked, but that was easily managed. 

"_Alohomora!_" she muttered, pointing her wand at the door.

It gave a creak and swung open, revealing the empty Potions classroom, dark and dank, with air so frigid that she saw her breath. She gathered her dressing gown around her and stepped inside, eyes wide as she headed for the entrance to Snape's private storage area. She kept her gaze straight, determinedly avoiding the creepy bottles full of creepy things that lined the walls, because they were even creepier in the dark. A sliver of artificial moonlight had penetrated the room. It streaked across her frightened face as she passed the window.

Beyond the moonlight, though, the front of the room was in total darkness. Hermione felt her way along, fingering the corners of stations 1 and 2, until she gently bumped into some wood and realized that she had reached Snape's desk. Just beyond that was the wooden door to his private stores. At least she didn't need to see to perform this spell. She raised her wand and was just about to mumble it, when all of a sudden there was a loud POP behind her, followed by a deep, angry male voice that shouted …

"All right, who's in here! Show yourself!"

Hermione jumped about a foot and whirled around. Snape was standing in the dimly lit center of the classroom, wearing green pajamas, matching slippers, and a black dressing gown. His greasy hair was knotted and hanging in his tired eyes as he looked left, right, and center with his wand thrust in front of him, an ugly snarl tugging at his lip.

_Blast. I must have tripped an alarm_, Hermione thought, her breathing coming hard and fast. She attempted to scuttle behind Snape's desk in the dark, painfully scraped her shin on the corner, and fell on her hands and knees.

"Oh, that's _it_. _Lumos_!" Snape yelled.

Hermione froze. Her mind, however, went into overdrive. When Snape's wand ignited, he would attempt to find her in the dark. Perhaps she could double back, scurry out behind him before the light caught her, and this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

Or not.

Snape's shout, instead of igniting his wand, turned on all the lights in the classroom and Hermione, now scared out of her mind, moved on instinct. She tried to creep away from the light, knowing even as she did it that this was a spectacularly stupid thing to do. Snape was sure to notice the movement.

She was not disappointed. In an instant, she heard steps in her direction. A man's large, bony hand grabbed her arm and roughly yanked her to her feet. She stood face to chest with her Potions Master, who did not look pleased to see her. He let go of her quickly, as though she were something slimy, and glared at her.

"Miss Granger, what is the meaning of this?" he growled.

And Hermione, normally so in control, could only splutter, "I … Wa … He … Er …" She had no idea what to say to Snape, because honestly she hadn't planned on getting caught in the first place.

Snape raised an eyebrow at her. "Stop gibbering and explain yourself like a rational human being. What are you doing sneaking into my classroom in the dead of night?"

Hermione hung her head. She was completely at a loss. Rational thought flew out the window and panic took over. _What the hell is Ron **doing** out there? Picking his nose?_ And then …_ Wait a minute, that pop. Snape Apparated! And Ron's still outside! He might not even **know**! Oh, if he walks in, this whole thing will blow up in our faces…_

Snape derailed her train of thought. "Oh, I think I know," he said bitterly. "You thought it would be a lark to test the wards I set up! See if you could wake me from a dead sleep when I need my strength to _teach you_ tomorrow morning!"

"N-N-No, sir!" Hermione said, horrified at the accusation and yet pleased that Snape (most likely out of fatigue) had not figured out why she was actually here.

Snape snorted. "You are a Prefect, Miss Granger. Honestly, I expected better behavior from you. Now answer my question."

"Y-You answered your own q-question, sir."

"Codswallop," he said, and stepped forward. (She stepped back.) "You are Harry Potter's friend. Something is going on with that boy. And considering what a trouble magnet he is, it can't _possibly_ be legal."

Hermione blanched.

"Ah," Snape said, a most unpleasant smile snaking its way onto his face. "It appears I have hit on something true." Hermione took another step back. (Snape took another step forward.) "_Generally_, Miss Granger," he hissed dangerously, "when idiots try to invade my classroom in the dead of night, they are not here to test my wards. They are here to _steal_ something."

"I p-prefer the term 'l-liberate,'" Hermione said, trying desperately to bury her fear.

"_Do_ you."

Snape was looming over her now, quite peeved, with a frightful expression on his face. There was something unholy and terrifying in his dark, haunted eyes. And Hermione, for all she wanted to, was unable to look away. She stepped back again and bumped against the counter of work station 3. There was nowhere to run. Bile began to rise in her constricting throat.

"For the last time, tell me why you are here, Miss Granger," Snape snarled.

"I w-will n-n-not," she said.

"You won't." Snape let out a breath through his hooked nose in frustration. He seemed to be making a decision. "Then I'm afraid," he said angrily, "that you leave me no other choice."

For a brief moment, confusion replaced Hermione's fright. What in the world was he talking about?

She was half-way through "I beg your pardon?" when Snape pointed his wand at her heart and roared, "_LEGILIMENS!_"

TBC

* * *

Yes, I'm evil, I admit that. (ducks tomatoes) However, I won't have a chance to post for the next four days, and I didn't want to wait too long between "chappoes," as Shiba said, (LOL) so I figured I'd give you this to munch on. Think of it as a snack. If the site doesn't do something screwy, the main course will be up on Sunday. 

By the way, any comments about how I wrote Snape (how he could be improved, if he worked, if he didn't, etc.) would be much appreciated. Thanks!


	8. VII Thieves

**Reviewers! Stahchild**: I made you scream? Dang! Well hey, if you thought that chapter was crazy, check out _this_ one. LOL **E.A.V.**: Thanks for the insightful comments. Hermione, to answer your question, didn't check the wards because I blew it. LOL Thanks for your queries. As it happens, I have a question for you. Is the apparition rule that you can't apparate INTO or OUT OF the castle, or is it INSIDE? I can't remember the wording that Snape used when he was seething so spectacularly in PoA and I've put my book 3 away somewhere. Could you please check the wording for me? If I've goofed then I'll remedy it, but I just want to make sure. **IAm**: Mind you don't get an infection in those hands. LOL Here's more. Thanks for the support! **Angel**: Oh, I'm so happy you liked Snape! He's a very difficult character to write. I tried to make him not just an evil bastard, but human, tired, and grumpy. Success! Whoo hoo! **Shiba**: Yay! Hermione thanks you for your help. LOL Enjoy.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Thieves**

"_LEGILIMENS!_"

Hermione, not knowing Occlumency at all, had no hope of blocking Snape's attack. He shouted that awful word at her and it felt like someone had struck her in the face with a frying pan. There was a scream of fright (hers, she realized) and suddenly memories were flashing before her eyes in a blinding stream. Her third birthday party … Winning a spelling contest at eight … Nine years old, falling in a duck pond on a class outing … Eating a chocolate frog on the Hogwarts Express … Kissing Harry on the cheek at the end of fourth year … The memories were flying by almost too fast for her to catch, and then suddenly she could see herself talking to Ron on Sunday about Harry … and worse, horribly, their conversation just a few hours ago about her discovery.

_Oh, not that! Don't look at **that**!_ She shrieked in her head, but that just made something burrow painfully into her mind.

"NO!" she hollered.

Right, as though a mere word could stop this. The attack kept pressing, tunneling its way into her brain with such force that she moaned. She couldn't stand it, couldn't take any more … and then it was over. Her legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor. Her head was aching so badly she thought she might cry.

Dizzy and miserable, she looked up at Snape from where she'd fallen. He was towering over her now, hands on his hips, a wicked smile playing about his face. He looked like Christmas had come early.

"_Vivus Vitae_, eh?" he sneered. "I knew Potter had to be doing _something_ stupid, I just didn't know _what_. Thank you ever so much for clarifying that. By the way, I will report this to Professor Dumbledore and make sure that twit is expelled. Golden Boy or no, he can't go around taking illegal draughts."

"Don't … Don't know what you're … talking about," Hermione said, now feeling horribly queasy. The room began to spin. God, did Legilimency _always_ cause nausea this bad? She couldn't even imagine what Harry had gone through last year.

Snape snorted. "Don't insult my intelligence, Miss Granger. Mr. Potter has braided enough rope to hang himself, you, and that infernal Weasley boy, wherever he is, so for Merlin's sake, just come clean. Who knows? I might even have mercy on the two of you and you'll only get suspended …"

Snape kept talking, but Hermione wasn't paying attention anymore. How on earth could she get out of this? She assumed Ron was still "guarding" the hall, the word "guarding" very much in quotes, and Snape was … still blathering, now looking quite pleased with himself for his dirty trick.

Hermione began to shake. A frighteningly powerful emotion was racing through her: pure, unadulterated rage. That unctuous bastard had just … raped her mind, for lack of a better phrase. And now he was smiling about it.

Well _that_, she decided, was going to stop immediately.

* * *

Snape's shouting got Ron's attention outside. He stood up and tried to listen at the open doorway. Still under the invisibility cloak, he was mostly hidden from view. 

More arguing. Another shout. And then suddenly a wave of magic hit him full-on, whistling through his bones. Someone had just cast an incredibly powerful spell.

This was followed by the distinctive, shrill scream of his female best friend. Ron felt his breath catch in his chest. That couldn't be good. He had to do something.

Plan B! Of course, there had been no Plan A, but … details, really. Ron looked around for Filch. Not seeing anyone, he took off the invisibility cloak and shoved it into his schoolbag. On Hermione's advice, he'd taken it with him on this little mission. They'd need somewhere to put their stolen ingredients.

He slung his schoolbag over his shoulder and took a quick peek into the classroom. Snape was just standing there, his back to the doorway, his shoulders tense with effort.

And Hermione was on the floor.

It took all the willpower Ron possessed not to yell her name and go barging in. Whipping back around the corner, he hugged the wall and stared out at the hall, wide-eyed. Snape had caught Hermione. Snape was doing something very _bad_ to Hermione. This entire thing was going to hell. What was he supposed to do _now_?

He glanced around. There was a decorative fireplace about twenty feet down the hall, and something glittering next to it. On instinct, he ran for it. The glittering item turned out to be a stand which held an ornate golden set of fireplace tools: a poker, a long-handled brush, and a shovel. Ron's face curled into a grim smile.

* * *

_So he thinks he's the be-all and end-all of deviousness, does he?_ Hermione thought. _Well, he'd better think again. _

Hermione was not the brightest student in her year for nothing. She recalled a spell that she had taught herself after seeing its effects the summer of her fourth year. It was dangerous and difficult to control, so she had sworn that she would use it only in emergencies. This definitely counted. Harry's safety and school career were both in jeopardy unless she did something. Besides, how _dare_ this bastard think he could just waltz into her head and pull out information?

All she needed was one clean shot. She wasn't dizzy anymore, but in order to pull this off she had to make a good feint. Staggering slowly to her feet, making a big show of looking off-kilter and nauseous, she bit her tongue to keep from laughing at Snape's raised eyebrows. Then she stumbled forward dramatically. Snape gripped her shoulders and guided her to the middle of the room, away from the workstations. He stood and faced her, his back to the open door.

"Stay where you are," he said in annoyance. "Everyone reacts differently to Legilimency, and I don't want you vomiting on anything valuable."

Hermione pretended to gasp and cough. She licked her lips, looking at him with what she hoped was helpless anger in her eyes, and again swayed dangerously on her feet. Snape gripped her shoulders in irritation and held her still.

"Before I report you," Snape said, "Do you have anything to say to me?"

"Yes I do," Hermione said softly, in a crackly, weak voice, gathering her concentration. _Ten minutes_, she chanted in her head, as she again pretended to struggle wildly for balance, clutching her wand tightly. _Ten minutes. Ten minutes._

It only took half a second. She stood up ramrod straight, threw Snape's arms off her, pointed her wand at his _very_ surprised face and shouted …

"_OBLIVIATE!_"

The effect was immediate. Snape looked hypnotized. His normally scowling countenance had gone slack, and he looked far more approachable for it, but Hermione didn't have much time to contemplate this. Yes, the man was an ogre, and yes, she'd obliviated him, but he was the sort that didn't miss _anything_. He would eventually realize that he had ten minutes of blank time and begin to wonder what happened.

It was a risk Hermione could not afford to take. Snape, for his part, looked as though he was struggling towards lucidity. Good. As soon as he could talk, she had to implant a memory to cover the ten minutes. A "false alarm, I was on patrol, heard you shout and came running" story would explain her presence here quite nicely.

"Miss Granger?" Snape asked vaguely, shaking his head slightly. There was a charming innocence in his oily voice that Hermione had never heard before. "What's happ-"

**CLANG!**

Snape's dark eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched sideways, crumpling to the floor in a heap. Ron was standing behind him, heaving for breath and holding a golden fireplace shovel, his schoolbag slung over one shoulder.

"Herms, are you all right?" Ron asked.

Hermione's mouth dropped open. She stared at him, then at Snape (who had just passed out peacefully on the floor), then back at him.

"Not really!" she said, her voice rising as she panicked. "Damn it, Ron, what the hell did you just _do_?"

Ron snorted. "Oh nothing, I just saved your _life_ is all!"

Hermione made an indistinct noise of frustration. "No you didn't! And don't call me Herms, it chafes!"

Ron scratched his head, processing her first sentence and ignoring the second. "I … didn't?"

"No!" Hermione insisted. He still looked totally baffled. So she attempted to explain, although she was getting angrier by the second. "Snape legilimized me, so I obliviated him, and you stormed in here and knocked him out before I could finish the _spell_! You _idiot_!" she snapped.

Ron apparently wasn't that concerned about Hermione's spell or her fury. "He did _what?_!" he responded, appalled. "That bastard! That's completely illegal! You can't just legilimize students! What in the name of Merlin was he thinking?"

"Nothing reasonable," Hermione said truthfully. "I don't think I've ever seen him that ferocious or discombobulated. Well, there was that one time in third year, but …"

"Does he know about Harry?" Ron interrupted.

"I'm not sure. I told you, I _tried_ to cast a memory charm on him," Hermione spat. "But now I don't know _what_ he'll actually remember because _you_, like a _prat_, bumbled in and ruined it!"

"How did _I_ ruin it?" exclaimed Ron.

Hermione growled at him. "He passed out before he could hear the new memory I'd made for him to replace the old one! I could have had him _convinced_ that a false alarm had brought him down here, he shouted, you and I came running, etcetera, and just let him just toddle off to bed so we could try to get at the storage again, but oooooh, no! _You_ had to come up behind him and smack him with a ruddy shovel! _Now_ what are we going to do!"

They both stood there in silence for a moment, Hermione heaving with rage and frustration, Ron staring sullenly at the ground and twirling the shovel on its point. He looked rather disappointed with himself. Finally, he made eye contact.

"Now we get what we came for," he said.

Hermione snorted dismissively. "And then what? Leave Snape laying on the floor for the poor house-elves to find?"

Ron ignored that comment. "Look," he said, digging in his schoolbag and producing three small sacks. "You take care of the ingredients. I'll figure out something to do with Snape."

Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

"I'll keep watch over him while you're in there," he said.

"Just mind that's _all_ you do," she warned, and ran for the door to the private stores. "Alohomora!" she said quietly, brandishing her wand and putting plenty of intention behind the spell. Nothing happened.

She tried again, with the same result. Then suddenly Snape's words filtered back to her.

"_You thought it would be a lark to test the wards I set up!"_

The wards … he set up the wards! His wand! That was the key! Hermione ran over and grabbed Snape's wand where it lay next to him on the floor. She hurried back to the door, and, using it, said the spell again with all the focus she possessed.

The latch clinked open.

"Yes!" said Ron. "All right, what do we need?"

"Carrow Lily Root, Knurfle Paste, and Kelpie Scales," Hermione said distractedly.

She stopped on her way to the door, turned, and gave Snape a glance that looked just a bit like pity. Then she motioned at the unconscious teacher almost in disbelief.

"That's your mess, you," she barked at Ron. "I suggest you clean it up!"

* * *

"Yes, Mum," Ron muttered as she disappeared through the door. 

He was now alone in the creepy, cold classroom with an equally creepy, cold (and now motionless) Potions Master. Ron glanced at him, secretly a bit glad that Hermione's plight had produced this opportunity. Snape was no longer his professor, so braining him with a shovel had been like drinking one of those newfangled Diet Butterbeers: utterly satisfying and nearly guilt-free.

Ron began to whistle tunelessly as he picked through his bag, wondering how he could make good on his promise to Hermione. They couldn't just magic Snape back into bed in his chambers, because none of the students knew where he lived. So they would have to leave him here. But how could possibly they do it without it looking suspicious?

Ron pondered this as he rummaged through his things. He hadn't unpacked today, so his bag was stuffed with parchment, quills, the invisibility cloak, and still weighed down with … other stuff. He took out the heaviest item in his schoolbag to lighten the load.

Just then, Hermione came barreling out of the storage room. The three tiny bags were all full, sealed, and magically labeled. She spelled the door shut with Snape's wand and hurried over.

"Come on, Ron, let's get out of here," she said. She knelt at Snape's side and put his wand back in the pocket of his dressing gown.

But Ron didn't answer her. He was too busy admiring what he'd pulled from his bag: the bottle of Firewhisky he'd nicked from behind Harry's armoire. He looked at the bottle, then at Snape, then back at the bottle.

"I've got an idea," he said.

Hermione stood up and glared sourly at him. "Ron, you don't have ideas, you have _impulses._" She pointed again at Snape's prone form. "Exhibit A. We are leaving, _now_, before you have another one."

"Not just yet," Ron said, shaking his head stubbornly and heading for the nearest sink.

And with that, he opened the bottle of Firewhisky. Next to the sink was a pile of clean towels. He grabbed one and soaked it liberally with the liquor. Then he dumped three-quarters of the bottle down the drain, so there was only a little left inside.

Hermione watched this bizarre action and hissed, "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up my mess," Ron hissed back. "Here, put this on his desk."

He tossed the Firewhisky cap to a mystified Hermione, who did as she was asked. Ron, meanwhile, knelt next to Snape. He brushed the cloth gently over the Potion Master's hooked nose, bravely parted his teacher's lips and sponged his yellow teeth with it, drizzled some of the whiskey into his greasy hair, and even dripped some onto his pajama shirt. Then he gently slid the now nearly-empty bottle into Snape's limp right hand.

"All right," Ron said. "Let's go."

He looked up just in time to see Hermione's jaw drop for the second time in as many minutes. And then she stared at him for a moment with the queerest expression he had ever seen.

"Who are you and what have you done with Ronald Weasley?" she asked.

Ron just grinned. He grabbed his shovel, tugged on her hand, and soon they were tearing out of the Potions classroom. Together, they pulled the door shut and ran for their lives back to Gryffindor Tower.

* * *

They stopped just down the hall from the Fat Lady to smooth down their hair and clothes. Ron couldn't stop smirking as he looked at Hermione. Hermione, in turn, kept smirking as she looked at Ron. She cracked first, giggling nervously. He joined her. They couldn't stop laughing for the longest time. 

Hermione couldn't believe what they had just done. It was mad. It was sneaky. It was wrong. It was so _utterly_ un-Gryffindor.

It was exhilarating.

"You know," she said finally, when both had rid themselves of the giggles, "What you did back there was very, _very_ stupid, but you did save me from him. And your cover-up was surprisingly brilliant, I must say. So … thank you."

Ron beamed. "What's this I hear? Now you're thanking me for saving your life?"

"Well, you didn't exactly save my _life_ …" Hermione began, rolling her eyes.

"But I did save you," Ron pressed.

"Yes," Herimione said, her lips twitching. "Yes, you did."

"I believe you owe me a reward, then," Ron said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "We're friends! What do you need a reward for?"

"Time spent worrying about you," Ron said, a smug grin now playing about his face.

He was plotting something, it was as plain as the freckles on his nose. Hermione decided to humor him.

"Oh, fine," she said, with only a touch of her usual annoyance. "What do you want, then? Candy? Some pranks from Zonko's?"

Ron looked slightly affronted. "Tch. No!" He paused, very uncomfortably, and then said, "Halloween Dance. With me. Will you go?"

Hermione leaned against the wall and stared at him. Even after she sorted out his miserable syntax, it took her a minute to get her bearings.

Go to the dance with Ron? She distinctly remembered telling him "no" a few days ago. Honestly, the boy had the memory of a gnat. Besides, what did he want to take _her_ for? They would probably walk in together, he'd get distracted by some pretty girl, abandon her in about five minutes, and leave her fuming and unhappy for the rest of the night. Ron was Ron, after all … girl-mad and horribly stupid about it. However, he was her friend, and he _had_ saved her arse back there. She couldn't let him walk through those doors alone.

And anyway, maybe everything would work out differently. Really, as well as she thought she knew Ron, in spite of her jokes about his abysmal revision skills and his poor grades … he'd been quite brilliant tonight. Perhaps there was more to this tall, underachieving redhead than met the eye. Perhaps she'd just seen a flash of it. Perhaps, if she went to the dance with him, she'd see a flash of it again.

"All right," she said. And she smiled.

TBC

* * *

So they've got the ingredients. And Ron did something ingenious! Whose minds did I blow? Raise your hands! LOL Here it is … your overly-dramatic teaser. 

_Will the potion work? Will Harry suspect? And **what** will happen to Snape? Find out in the next thrilling installment of Fizz! Coming soon!_

Thanks, as always, for reading. You all rock! - Kiki


	9. VIII Brews

**Reviewers! EAV: **I'm so glad you liked it! BTW, I got off my lazy ass, found my book 3 and discovered, much to my amusement, that I'd dug my own grave. Snape says specifically that you can't "apparate or disapparate INSIDE this castle." Dang it, this is going to take some fancy footwork to fix. Thanks for calling it to my attention in the first place. Also, your comments about some of the details got me to go back and put in a couple more things in the last chapter. Nothing mind-blowing or story altering, but now it's more complete. Thank you! **Stahchild: **Oh yes, SO many things can go wrong. That's half the fun! You can rest assured, though, that Ron and Hermione will do everything in their power to save their friend. So glad you're enjoying. **Kiwi**: This is not a romance, much less an R/H. Have no fear! Thanks for your other comments. I'm glad I write a passable Snape. And while I do concede that he's pondering Potter in his off-hours, it's not as though he does this all the time. He's just baffled because Harry is acting so weird. **Shiba and Infall: **THANK YOU! Have I mentioned you guys are the bomb? **Angel: **Yeah, juuuuust a bit more than a nightcap. Hee hee! Glad you liked it. **ggffi:** Thanks for the support. How do you pronounce your name? "Jiffy?" :D

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Brews**

Harry Potter came to consciousness gasping for breath. His heart was racing. He was shaking like a leaf. A nightmare? No, that wasn't it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a nightmare. In fact, he realized with a touch of alarm, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a _dream_.

He reached under his bed where he'd tucked his hip flask, uncapped it, and drank until he finished the lot. The shakes faded. His heart slowed down. He breathed a little easier and looked at his bedside clock. Four in the morning. He jiggled his now empty flask and swore under his breath. He'd have to make some more in about an hour.

Four in the morning, and he'd woken out of a dead sleep because he needed a fix. Was that bad? He shook his head to rid himself of the question. All right, so he needed his elixir more than before. So he needed it all the time, now. It had no adverse effects, as far as he could tell.

_Besides_, Harry thought. _It's not like I'm an addict. I can quit using this any time I want to. _

His right hand quivered and he grabbed his wrist to still it. He looked around the dormitory, still and silent except for the breathing of the other boys, and gulped.

_Yep. Any time at all.

* * *

_

Severus Snape came to consciousness with his left cheek smashed against something cold, a pounding headache, a horrible ringing in his ears, and a taste in his mouth that was _beyond_ foul. His dark eyes fluttered open, only to meet piercingly painful light. He clapped them shut again and turned his focus inward. His spine was stiff and twisted into an odd position. Not being quite so young and bendy anymore, it announced its displeasure. Little tendrils of pain crept out from the center of his back and snaked into his ribcage. His left shoulder was one giant cramp, and the arm squashed underneath it was completely numb. His pajamas were damp and chilly. His legs ached. His feet were cold.

Snape moaned in misery and realized two things very quickly: one, he never wanted to wake up like this again. Ever. And two, he was not in his bed, but on the floor. Admittedly, how he had arrived at this destination was something of a mystery.

He struggled again to look around and managed to crack his eyelids open a hair, twisting his face towards his armpit to block out most of the blinding light above him. Finally he got his eyes to open a little wider. He blearily took in the floor on which he lay.

It was not the heated parquet floor of his bedroom. It was the cold stone floor of his Potions classroom. So it seemed that he had not rolled out of bed and kept on sleeping, as he had first assumed.

Wait a minute. What was he doing sleeping on the floor of his classroom? And why did his head hurt so much? Merlin, it felt like a brass band was stomping around in there. He blinked once and tried to raise his head. Big mistake. A wave of terrible vertigo swept over him and he groaned as his face flopped down onto his arm again.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that his right hand was touching something cool and smooth. He clutched whatever it was and brought to his face, his arm shaking the whole way. Bringing it very close and squinting very hard, he realized he was holding an empty glass bottle. He made out a label … and on that label, a word.

Ogden's.

Snape felt as though a stone had dropped into his stomach. However, even through his mortification, his diagnostic sense had begun to kick in. He had a horrible taste in his mouth, pounding headache, sensitivity to light … all the classic symptoms of a hangover. His mind began to race. Had he poured himself a nightcap and overdone it? Perhaps one shot had become two, and two had become seven, and somehow he'd ended up in here.

But that didn't feel like the right explanation. First of all, as miserable as he felt physically, his mind was miraculously clear. There was none of the usual muzziness and miasma that accompanied something like this. And, to add to his concern, he realized that he didn't have that last element of the waking-up-after-a-night-of-drinking scenario: a pressing urge to use the little wizards' room.

Something was very off about this whole thing, and it wasn't just his equilibrium.

But he didn't have any more time to ponder this. A door opened beyond him. There was a gasp of alarm and a slap of slippers in his direction. Then he heard Albus Dumbledore's voice, very close by.

"Severus? Severus!"

Snape felt someone lift his head and gently slap his cheek.

"Albus? What are you doing here? What happened?" Snape asked. Or so he thought.

What he actually produced was …

"Aggh duuhhh. Whaaa?"

* * *

Both of Dumbledore's eyebrows shot for his hairline. From where he squatted next to Snape, he looked at Pearly, the house-elf. She was watching nervously from the door, tugging at her tea towel with spindly fingers and blinking her huge eyes. 

"Pearly, be a dear and get Madame Pomfrey, will you?" Dumbledore said. "I know it's very early. Tell her it's an emergency, she's needed in Professor Snape's classroom."

"Yes, Mister Dumbledore, sir!" Pearly squeaked. Then she surveyed the room and put both of her hands to her face in embarrassment. She gasped. "And when Pearly comes back she will get the dirty linen! Winky always forgets, she does." She smoothed out her tea towel, curtseyed, and vanished.

Dumbledore took a moment to sit down cross-legged and run a hand through his uncombed hair and beard. He gathered his dressing gown closer over his extravagantly patterned blue pajamas, and surveyed the potions classroom for a moment. It was immaculate, as usual. The work stations were clean, the floors were spotless, and the house-elves had set out fresh towels beside the sinks. His eyes roamed over the barrel of dirty linen Pearly mentioned. Some student had carelessly tossed in a final towel on top of the heap and it was hanging over the lip. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, though.

So Dumbledore returned his attention to the Potions Master. He gently turned Snape on his back (this caused a moan) and pulled Snape's head and shoulders into his lap. Looking down, he couldn't help but sigh. It was pitiful, really.

Snape clutched a nearly empty bottle of Firewhiskey. He was incoherent and disoriented. And he absolutely _reeked_ of alcohol. Dumbledore had no idea what had driven one of his teachers to drink nearly a whole bottle of Ogden's, but that question could wait. Dumbledore had seen people hammered, but Snape was so drunk he was practically catatonic. In fact, he looked so out of it that Dumbledore was afraid to move him. He just hoped Poppy would be along soon.

"Severus, try to open your eyes. Can you?"

"Hurzz," said Snape.

"Yes, I know," Dumbledore replied kindly. "But please attempt it, if you would. Here, let me dim the lights."

With a flick of his wand, the harsh lights of the classroom faded halfway. Snape licked his lips, made a slight face at the taste, and managed to open his eyes wider.

"Albus?" he croaked. The word was clear … a good sign.

"Yes, Severus, it's me. Just stay calm, I want Madame Pomfrey to have a look at you."

* * *

_Madame Pomfrey? What? _

It then occurred to Snape how drunk he must appear to his employer.

_Tch. Well, there goes my Christmas bonus. _

And the old man's comment made sense, Snape realized. Calling for the nurse would be the natural reaction to finding one of your staff passed out on the floor of his classroom. What _didn't_ make sense was, well, everything else. It was just like he had thought before Dumbledore had come in. This situation felt completely wrong.

And that was when the last fact fell into place. Snape realized that he had no memory of actually _opening_ the bottle clutched in his hand. He was no stranger to imbibing, but his excellent memory, equal parts gift and burden, had always managed to salvage at least the _beginning_ of the drinking.

This time, however, he couldn't remember _anything_. It was rather terrifying. He blinked twice and saw two Dumbledores twinkling over him, both upside-down. He idly wondered if Dumbledore had cast _Multiplicory_ on himself.

"Something bothering you, Severus?" the Dumbledores asked conversationally.

Snape blinked again, trying in vain to clear his vision. His head continued to pound. "Albus?" he asked softly. "What time is it?"

"Four in the morning," was the reply. "I couldn't sleep. I was on my way to the restroom when a house-elf passed me and informed me that the light was on in your classroom, for some reason. I went to investigate. Apparently, I made the right call."

Both of the Dumbledores sighed in tandem.

"Severus," they asked, "Is something bothering you?"

"Yes, actually," said Snape. The two Dumbledores were making him horribly dizzy, so he shut his eyes. "I am quite disturbed by the fact that I have no idea how I got here."

There was a snort, and Dumbledore said, "I am not half as confused about that as you. You came in here and got ridiculously drunk, Severus, simple as that. And I would like to know why."

"No, that's the thing," Snape said, his head aching worse than ever.

The pain was centralizing into a single spot at the back of his skull. Odd, that. All of his hangover headaches had been at the front, just behind his temples. His back was aching worse than ever. At least Albus' lap was warm under his shoulders.

"I can't remember opening this bottle, Albus," he finished, his voice raspy and foreboding. "Something is very wrong here."

"Yes, something is indeed very wrong here!" said Dumbledore. "I have found my Potions Master passed out on the floor of his classroom, a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand, and enough liquor on his breath to cause the retreat of a small army!"

Snape, annoyed at this description, snapped his eyes open, glared up at the Dumbledores, and attempted to sit up. "Albus, I tell you, I did not get druh- oh!" The world slid over to the left and Snape slid with it. Two old bony hands caught him before he'd gone six inches and settled him down again.

"Severus, it's all right. We all overdo it once in a while."

Snape was about to protest this but Madame Pomfrey picked that moment to bustle in, her hair undone and her long white nightgown flapping out behind her. Pearly ran in at her side and went straight to the barrel of dirty linen. Catching hold of it, she took it and both she and the barrel disappeared.

"Severus …?" asked Poppy. "Oh, pew! You smell like a brewery! Albus, what happened?"

"Professor Snape got drunk and passed out," Dumbledore volunteered cheerfully.

"I was not drinking, I tell you!" Snape snapped.

The outburst had no effect. He was, after all, lying prone on the floor with his head in the headmaster's lap. So he was annoyed, but not surprised, that Poppy snorted as she pulled out her wand. It was time to do some serious convincing. Snape didn't remember drinking, but he certainly remembered a lot of _other_ things, which could only help his case.

"I was in my classroom until ten marking essays," he explained, lying quietly with his neck on Dumbledore's crossed shins. Two Poppys shined lights in his eyes. "Then I went to bed. Around midnight, an alarm went off in my apartments. I used my emergency apparition code. … Albus, you remember."

Dumbledore nodded soberly. Apparating inside Hogwarts was technically impossible. Technically. There were ways around everything. Snape, after the Gillyweed disaster a couple of years back, had successfully lobbied for a personal apparition code, in order to get straight from his quarters to his classroom and thwart would-be thieves and intruders.

"Anyway, I used that to get in here and see what the disturbance was, and after that…" Snape stopped and realized, now feeling a bit sick and panicky, that he didn't quite know _what_ had happened after that. "Damn it, it's all a blur!" he finished, his face ashen.

The Dumbledores and the Poppys looked skeptical.

"Severus, are you experiencing double vision? Loss of balance? Localized headache?" Poppy asked suddenly. She had cast a quick charm and was analyzing some sparkles hanging in the air.

"Yes," Snape growled. "And don't tell me it's a hangover."

"I wasn't going to," Poppy replied. "It's a concussion." Turning his face slightly to examine him, she announced, "You have a very large lump back here."

"Oh my," Dumbledore mumbled.

"Tell me if this hurts," said the nurse. She poked the back of Snape's head.

"OW!" said Snape.

"What say you, Poppy?" Dumbledore asked above him. "Did he fall?"

Poppy sighed. "I don't know. It's a nasty blow, though. Either he fell very hard, or someone who hates him got the jump on him."

"Someone who hates me?" Snape repeated, turning to face her. "You're joking, right? I'm the _Potions Master_, woman! I teach the most hated subject in school. I'm head of _Slytherin_, the most hated _house_ in school. 'Someone who hates me,' honestly! _Everybody_ hates me!"

Poppy scoffed. "Now Severus, that's not true," she said. "Here, let me tend you. This will sting a bit."

That was all the warning Snape got. She turned his face again, whacked him smartly on the back of the head with her wand, and he yelped. The smack did the trick, though. Something warm and soothing was penetrating the bruising, dulling the pain, seeping in through his skull and meandering through his head. He looked up to see that the two Poppys and the two Dumbledores were merging into single images. The clarity was marvelous, even though he felt himself getting very sleepy from Poppy's spell.

"I also repre – resin –… re_sent_, there we go, I re_sent_ the implication that I allowed some idiot to waltz up behind me and … and brain me with a shovel, or something," he said.

"Oh shut up, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly. "Just go to sleep, there's a good lad. I'll take your classes for today. Poppy, is it safe to move him?"

"Safe as houses," she said.

Snape's eyes slid shut and he felt every strand of his body go limp.

* * *

Hermione Granger came to consciousness somewhere between the portrait hole of Gryffindor Tower and the girls' restroom inhabited by Moaning Myrtle. Running on four-and-a-half hours of sleep, the bleary-eyed brunette had somehow managed to dress and pack up all her supplies without waking her dorm mates. Then she crept out of the Tower to start the brew which would be instrumental in Operation: Save Harry. 

She went over the events of a few hours ago one more time to make sure they hadn't forgotten anything. She'd put Snape's wand back. Check. Ron threw the towel in with the other dirty linen. Check. She wrested the golden shovel from Ron, cast a straightening charm on it to remove the Snape-felling kink, and put it back with the other tools near the fireplace. Double Check.

Yawning and pulling her cloak around her to ward off the early morning chill, she looked at her watch. 4:45 am. Truly a beastly time to be awake, but the antidote took 15 hours, beginning to end. If she started brewing it now, it would be ready by 8 o'clock tonight and phase two of the operation could commence.

She stumbled into the bathroom and let herself into a battered stall. Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was perfect for stuff like this, because nobody ever came in here. And predictably, as soon as she had set up her cauldron and lit one of her portable fires under it, the reason for this absence of people came floating by.

"Oh, hello," said Myrtle. "What are you doing in here so early?"

"Working," Hermione said tersely.

She pulled out the recipe for the antidote from her pocket, magically tacked it to the stall wall, and began to organize her ingredients on a cutting board, which she levitated to waist height.

"Oh," said Myrtle. "You know who else has been working in here?"

"Who?" Hermione asked, barely looking up. The water was beginning to boil. It was nearly time to add the Kelpie Scales.

"Harry Potter."

Hermione met Myrtle's eyes. "Pardon?"

"Oh, yes, didn't you know? He's been in here almost every other day for the last three weeks," Myrtle said. She looked supremely satisfied at knowing something Hermione didn't.

Hermione pretended to be surprised at Myrtle's information. Fizz, after all, had an amazingly short shelf life. She knew that. And Myrtle's bathroom _was_ the perfect place to brew anything illegal, so it made perfect sense for Harry to come here.

"Yes," Myrtle went on, "he's been coming in late at night, sometimes early in the morning, and it's been so nice! His visits have made me so very happy. Harry loves me, you see."

Hermione carefully added the Kelpie Scales. It took everything in her not to laugh. She waited three seconds and then added one tablespoon of the Knurfle Paste. The potion turned bright orange.

"Does he really?" she asked conversationally, and began chopping up her monkshod roots.

"Of course!" said Myrtle. She proceeded to blather on about every single subject she and Harry had discussed in the past three weeks.

Hermione just let the words wash over her as she added ingredient after ingredient. This thing was very complicated to brew and she didn't want to screw it up, so she kept nervously checking and re-checking every line of the instructions as she followed them. After twenty minutes of painstaking labor, the potion was at its final stage before she could begin simmering. According to the instructions, it was supposed to be a murky, silvery blue color, and very thick. She braved a glance at her cauldron.

Perfect.

She turned her portable fire down to a simmer, vanished any refuse from all the cutting and measuring she did, and packed up her ingredients.

"You know," said Myrtle, "I never found out what he's been brewing. Do you know?"

Hermione blinked at her, carefully keeping her face neutral. "No. I have no idea."

"That's too bad. He wouldn't tell me, either. I mean you'd _think_, as his _girl_, I'd have a right to know, but no, he hasn't told me anything!" Myrtle said, her entire mood starting to change. "Dear me, do you think it's possible he's angry with me? I mean, he's hardly spoken to me at all since Sunday, and I … I … Oooooh! What if he h-hates m-me?"

She started sobbing and floated away miserably, probably to find a comfortable U-bend. Hermione silently thanked whatever higher power was in control of Myrtle's hormones. With the ghost out of her hair, she was free to smile proudly at her little cauldron.

And then the bathroom door swung open. There was only one other person who Myrtle had mentioned as a visitor. Hermione stopped smiling immediately.

Footsteps. A distinctive tuneless whistle. The unmistakable squeak of a cauldron. It was Harry. At six in the morning, it couldn't possibly be anyone else. And if he caught her, it was all over. Hermione thought fast and pointed her wand at herself. She quietly cast a levitation charm, so he wouldn't see her feet.

Unfortunately, she slightly overdid it out of nerves and began to rise upwards too far for her liking. She had to press hard against the sides of the stall with two feet and one hand to keep from floating out. It was a nerve-wracking maneuver to stuff her wand down her shirt so she could put her other hand on the wall, but she made it.

Myrtle, fortunately, was busy sobbing in her U-bend. The ghost hadn't noticed Harry's arrival, and her noisy crying covered up all the quiet bubbling of Hermione's cauldron.

Hermione held herself still and listened again. There was a yawn in the stall right next to hers. A clink. A muttered spell. Her eyes went wide. Harry was standing less than _two feet_ from her, brewing up a pot of Fizz. Her heart started hammering. Her jaw was locked. After a few agonizing moments, her arms and legs were quivering.

_Hold tight_, she thought in a panic. _Don't move. Don't even breathe._

She held it together for a whole two minutes, feeling beads of sweat form on the back of her neck and listening to Harry clank around next to her. After an eternity, it sounded like he was nearly done brewing. Her heart had calmed down and her limbs were just finding their second wind when suddenly she scrunched her nose.

She felt a sneeze coming on.

TBC


	10. IX Purgatory

**Reviewers! **First of all, I'm SO sorry for the long wait. Writing a suspense fic and leaving things hanging (quite literally) is horrible. However, my life has been total lunacy for the past two weeks, and it's about to get even crazier, so I want to get this chappy out now. Barring any problems with the website, I will post again on May 21st. Messages! **Angel**, yay! Thanks for your comments. The elves at Hogwarts keep their secrets. They wouldn't blab, I don't think. As for Dumbledore having a bathroom in his chamber, um … the commode was broken, so he was, uh … searching for another one? LOL Yeah, lame-o. I'll try to fix that and put in something else. Glad you're enjoying, though. **Infall**, will do. Luv ya! **EAV**: Well, _Madame Pomfrey _won't find out about the Obliviation, … mwa ha ha. Have fun! **Kiwi**: Thanks for your comments. I clarified the "apparition code" thing in this chapter, so it's more magical than techno. Hey, I have a completely non-Harry related question for you. Are you, by any chance, the same Kiwi that draws Skirting Danger? Just curious. **Shiba**! Hee hee! Glad you liked that part. And you liked Myrtle! Whoo hoo! I'm glad I wrote her right. Thanks as always for your comments and support. **Stahchild**: What can I say, babe? Thanks a bunch as usual for your reviews, and I'm so happy you like it.

Here's more!

**CHAPTER NINE: Purgatory**

Harry, fortunately, picked that moment to finish up. Hermione heard him pour his concoction into his hip flask, noisily gather his supplies, and leave. The stall door next to hers creaked loudly as he opened it. She twitched her nose in desperation. Her eyes began to water as he walked with _agonizing_ slowness out of the bathroom.

Finally, the far door swung shut. Hermione let it rip.

"ACHOO!"

The sneeze was so powerful that she let go of the walls, rocketed straight out of the stall, and thumped into the ceiling. She stuck there like an enormous fly, pressed solidly up against the peeling tiles, looking down absently at her cauldron far below and rubbing her nose in relief.

"Bless you," said Myrtle suddenly.

Hermione shrieked. "Don't do that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"If I did, and you died, would you join me here?" Myrtle asked absently as she drifted into Hermione's range of vision.

Hermione snorted at the bespectacled ghost. "Perhaps if I were sentenced to Purgatory."

Myrtle huffed and floated back a few paces. Hermione ignored her. She pulled out her wand, pointed it at herself, murmured an incantation, and immediately began to peel off the ceiling. Keeping an eye on Myrtle, she floated down to the ground, landed gently, and straightened her clothes.

Myrtle looked slightly disappointed that Hermione had made it down in one piece, but Hermione didn't notice this. She was contemplating her cauldron. More specifically, she was contemplating where she would _put_ her cauldron, as it couldn't stay here. People actually used Myrtle's bathroom in emergencies. She couldn't chance anybody coming in here and finding it. But where could she take it? The dorm?

The air suddenly got very cold behind her, and Hermione turned around. Myrtle's mood, it seemed, had again done a 180. She was staring at Hermione with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

"You know something," the ghost announced, with a cold directness in her voice that gave Hermione pause. "You're brewing, and you didn't want Harry to see you. You two are friends, but you're keeping something from him… I don't like this. What's going on?"

Hermione did her very best to keep her face bland and emotionless. If Myrtle found out, she could easily tell … well, anybody.

"I'm sorry, Myrtle, but you're wrong," she replied, trying to sound business-like. "What I'm making has nothing to do with Harry. It's for the Headmaster, it's top secret, and I'm afraid that if I tell you what it is, I'll have to kill you. Erm, again."

Myrtle's eyes went wide. "Wh-Wh-What?"

"You heard me," Hermione said, finding her courage. "Clear off. And by the way, you never saw me in here. It's for your own safety, you understand."

"E-E-Er …"

"GO, Myrtle!" Hermione barked.

Myrtle gave no further argument. She floated off right through the wall.

Hermione watched her go, let out a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding, and studied her cauldron again. Moving the potion was dangerous, but putting it in her dorm room and making up some story to keep Lavender and Parvati away from it was better than leaving it out in the open. The girls rarely went back up to their room once the day started, so it was a perfect place for simmering.

Decision made, she checked the stall to make sure she'd gathered everything. Her inspection satisfied her; she slung her satchel over one shoulder. With great care, she magically fastened the portable blue flame underneath her cauldron, picked it up by the handle, cast _Invisiblium_ on the whole thing, and made time out of the bathroom, her left hand clenched around the handle and her arm flung out very far and taut. The fire might have been invisible, but it was still very real, and she had to keep it away from her robes.

It was almost 6:15. She went down her checklist as she headed for the Tower. _Set my stuff in a spot where it won't cause trouble. Do it before Vati and Lav wake up. Go down to breakfast. Act normal. _

She sighed through her nose and pressed on. The plan seemed to have a fighting chance. The potion was on its way, Harry had no idea what was going on, and if Ron covered his end of the action right, they could have their friend freed from this rubbish in two short days.

But one thing was bothering her as she trudged down the hall: Snape. Ron's knock-out blow and cover-up had been brilliant, and she knew that her memory charm must have worked at least halfway because if it hadn't, she and Ron would be in Dumbledore's office right now, and Snape would be howling for their expulsion. Her brain said they were in the clear.

Her instincts said something else. Snape was a grouchy old bat, but he was an _intelligent_ grouchy old bat. Once he came around from the blow (she figured he already had), he was bound to suspect something. And they had Potions today! Her stomach tied itself into a slipknot. What would her teacher remember from last night? Well, that depended entirely on how well she'd managed to Obliviate him before Ron roared in and played Whack-a-Prof with that shovel.

She shook her head in dismay and trudged on. Ron had done something felonious, she had _no_ field experience with that charm, and even if it had worked correctly, she'd given Snape no cover story. The combination of sneaking, brewing, and worrying was starting to give her a headache. She leaned clumsily to the left from her invisible burden, and rubbed her tired eyes and red nose with her free hand.

* * *

The former Heads in the office watched from their frames with no small amusement as Albus Dumbledore gathered up his substituting supplies, picked invisible lint off his ornate purple robes, and checked the clock for the sixth time in thirty seconds.

It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. Dumbledore was nearly 160 years old. He had been an instructor at Hogwarts for nearly a century and Headmaster for nearly a quarter-century after that … and yet, after all his living and all his experience in the classroom, he felt his morning porridge burbling in his stomach.

He was teaching today. And he was nervous.

Finally cottoning on to what the portraits were snickering about, he chuckled at his own insecurity and smiled broadly at a nearby mirror to make sure he didn't have anything in his teeth.

"Never goes away, does it, old boy?" he asked his reflection quietly. "Ah, well. Onward and upward."

Dumbledore strode out of his office, loaded down with parchment, quills and a few books (the rest were floating along behind him). He gently flipped back his mane of white hair and began to fumfer with his beard, heading for the dungeons and the Potions classroom.

Teaching Potions was not his strong suit, but he would do for the time being. He was comforted by the fact that he and Poppy had gotten Severus taken care of and into bed without a fuss last night. And if he knew anything about the man, the subsequent measures he'd taken would ensure that the Potions Master would not leave his quarters until Dumbledore came back at day's end to fetch him.

* * *

At three minutes to 10, Hermione was jogging through the halls with Harry, hurrying to Potions. They'd just seen Ron off at Care of Magical Creatures and Hagrid had insisted each of them take a rock cake with them, "for later," so now they were scurrying along like maniacs, loaded down heavily with book bags and cauldrons, their pockets full of pastries that were more rock than cake.

Hermione's logical side asked why she was running. Considering last night, Snape would probably not be teaching today. She hadn't seen him at breakfast that morning. Of course, this was hardly something to be concerned about, because Snape rarely made an appearance at breakfast. Even so, her first ridiculous thought at realizing his absence was something along the lines of _Oh God, we killed him!_ Frankly, she was amazed that any of her breakfast had made it into her stomach, she was so nervous.

Ron had eaten like a pig, as usual. Harry had picked at his food with no enthusiasm. And Professor Dumbledore had made quite an unintentional spectacle of himself at the staff table, dropping his spoon repeatedly, knocking things over, spilling his tea, and nearly setting his beard on fire by leaning too close to a nearby candle. It was the oddest thing.

"Oh, I do hope we're not late! Professor Snape will be so angry!" Hermione fretted, doing what she hoped was a good impression of her normal self.

"We won't be," Harry replied, with that same scary blandness in his voice. If anything, it seemed to have intensified since last night at dinner. He didn't even sound out of breath, although they were both running flat-out, now.

The bell began to toll. Hermione let off a tame curse, just for a dash of authenticity. But in moments they were in sight of the Potions classroom. They zipped in and took their seats just as the last few chimes of the carillon died away. Both were concerned with getting out their supplies and not being late, and so it took Hermione a few moments to notice that Snape was indeed not at the front of the classroom.

Looking at her instead, and now the picture of calm, was Albus Dumbledore. Hermione couldn't help it. She broke into a wide grin.

* * *

Snape woke up to the inviting smell of cinnamon and sugar. He ignored it and instead luxuriated in the safe, wonderful feeling of waking up dry, warm, and rested, in his own bed. A bird chirped outside. Snape ignored this too and rustled around a bit beneath the thick bedclothes, making lumps rise and fall under the emerald-green duvet. He absently put one hand on his chest. His heart thrummed gently under his palm. He was alive, then. Good. His dream of a few minutes ago had indicated something to the contrary, although it wasn't frightening somehow, and it was already starting to slip away from him.

He heaved a sigh and blinked at the ceiling. Lazily tilting his head to the right, he caught half a face full of pillow and saw there was breakfast waiting for him on the night stand – French toast and tea. Then he realized his pajamas felt different. They were not the same ones he had gone to sleep in, and he had a slight headache. Ah, yes. Something bad had happened in the middle of the night, hadn't it? But Albus had taken care of things. It was all over now, and he was here. Good. He was almost ready to nod off again. The bed was so warm, and he was so comfortable, and Merlin's beard, was that SUNLIGHT?

Snape was always up before the sun. _Always_.

"Damn it!" he exploded, flinging his covers off in a panic and leaping out of bed. "I overslept! Oh, damn it all to Had – aaaugh!"

He made it perhaps eight inches before somehow tangling one foot in the scattered bedclothes, flailing his arms for balance, and crashing to the floor. The fall did nothing to deter him. He shook it off, stood up, and raced around his quarters for a full five minutes, tearing open various wardrobes and looking for his clothes, all of which seemed to have disappeared.

Well, _that_ was a deterrent. Snape was baffled. All he was able to locate were his dressing gown and slippers. It was October, and he was barefoot and chilly. He put everything on. After pacing around and letting his pulse slow, he finally remembered that Dumbledore would be stepping in to teach today.

This did nothing to soothe Snape's nerves. He ran one hand through his tangled, greasy hair and stalked into his bathroom. Shutting the door behind him out of habit, he headed for the toilet. Dumbledore, he reasoned, had probably made off with his clothes to keep him in his chambers. The Headmaster knew that Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House, wouldn't _dare_ wander around Hogwarts in his pajamas. The Potions Master had too much pride to do something undignified like that.

"Miserable old bastard," Snape snarled.

He finished his business, flushed the commode, straightened his dressing gown, and went to the sink to wash up.

Naturally, his first thoughts turned to escape. All he needed were some day clothes and he would be able to get Dumbledore out of his classroom. But Transfiguring his night clothes into his usual robes was out of the question. Snape was a genius brewer, but he was crap at Transfiguration (one of his dirty little secrets) and Dumbledore knew it.

Snape grabbed a towel and dried his hands as he wandered back out into his bedroom. He cast a sour glance at his French toast and tea. His wand was nowhere in sight, but that didn't matter.

"_Accio_ breakfast!" he commanded.

The toast and tea floated over and settled onto a nearby table. Snape eyed it. He was not hungry. He was unsettled. And he knew he wouldn't be able to deal with anything until he sorted out what happened last night, so he flung his towel over one shoulder, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, furrowed his brow, and began to pace.

"Hmm. What do I remember?" he muttered.

The answer, as it turned out, was "not much." After a few minutes of fierce recollection, his head was really starting to hurt and he could only piece together the basics: the alarm that rang at midnight (meaning an intruder was in his classroom), waking up in said classroom with a bottle in his hand, Albus and Poppy arriving, their annoying insistence that he had been drinking, Poppy whacking him on the head with her wand, and then waking up again in his bedroom.

There _had_ to be more to that story.

Snape scratched his face absently, ignored the fact that he needed a shave, and "accio"d his wand. Perhaps this could tell him something about last night. He prepared to cast _Priori Incantatem_. The last spell he could remember casting was _Reparo_. He'd dropped his empty cocoa cup at the sudden sound of the alarm, and quickly fixed it before shouting his personal apparition codeword and appearing in his classroom. Setting his wand down on the table next to his toast, he cracked his knuckles and cast the spell. A little specter drifted out of the tip.

It was the gray shade of an inanimate object, of all things: the door to his storage room in the Potions classroom. There was a whisper of "Alohomora!" … and it swung open.

"Son of a Basilisk!" Snape shouted.

It was all falling together. The quickly localizing headache, the missing time, the blurry memories… Everything was meshing in a most frightful way. _Someone_, some sneaky, indecent, horrible person, had lured him into his classroom, incapacitated him, gotten their hands on his wand, and used it to open the door to his stores. This meant that on top of everything else, there were precious ingredients missing; ingredients he would have to replace.

Snape sat down on his messy bed with a flump. He remembered clearly coming into his classroom, but almost everything from there on was a blur, at least until Albus and Poppy arrived. He glanced at a low cabinet near his breakfast table for a moment. Then he hurried over and took out a small stone cauldron full of swirling mist.

Shoving his food aside (the plate made a growl of disapproval), he set his Pensieve down on the table top, put his wand to his forehead, focused his thoughts, and drew out a long silver strand, which he added to the bowl. Then, taking a deep breath, he plunged his head in …

Snape stood calmly in the memory of his dark classroom, arms crossed, and watched as his other frazzled self glared around like a madman, shouting, "All right, who's in here? Show yourself!" and then, after a moment of intense frustration, "Oh, that's **it**! _Lumos_!"

Both Snapes (who could only be differentiated by the pattern on their pajamas) squinted at the sudden burst of light, and they simultaneously whipped around and the sudden scuttling noise behind their desk. The Snape of just-past-midnight gave chase and the Snape of present hurried behind his counterpart, urging him on. But he didn't move fast enough. Just as his memory reached out, grabbed someone's terry-clothed arm and yanked up, everything went dark.

It was sudden and complete, like someone had blindfolded him and taped his ears shut. Snape stood there and scratched his head. This halting stop to a memory could only be the result of two things, and unfortunately, he was familiar with both. But he hadn't seen anyone rush up behind the other him, so this couldn't be the part where he was incapacitated. Finally the blackness ended and the room lit up again, revealing him on the floor, holding a nearly empty bottle of Firewhiskey and looking distinctly worse for wear.

Snape allowed himself a wince. But the black-out hadn't been caused by whatever had given him his headache. _Ergo_…

Snape swore quietly. "I was Obliviated! And with no subtlety," he groused. But then his mind overcame his sniffiness, and he ran with it. "There's not even a substituted memory. It's just a blank. Which means … that some _beginner_ got _lucky_," he finished in disgust.

He saw Albus Dumbledore come in and, having no need for this part of his memory, he shouted, "Stop! Back up!"

Immediately, Dumbledore walked backwards out the door in very fast motion. The world snapped to black, and then reappeared. Memory Snape released something incredibly quickly and began to walk backwards equally so, shouting a word in reverse in a high squeaky voice.

"Stop!" Snape shouted again. "Play in slow motion!"

The scene jumped to life again. Snape's counterpart shouted "_Looooooomooossss_!" in a voice so deep it would have been comical in another context. He heard a distinctive skritching noise, each sound echoing off the walls. His memory self began to move forward as though through molasses.

Snape easily outstripped him this time and walked over to the desk before his other self could arrive. There, kneeling in the shadows, about to be grabbed by the arm and looking quite terrified, was …

Snape pulled himself out of his Pensieve, his blood boiling. He snatched up his wand and stormed out of his chambers in his sleep things, dignity be damned. Any thought of his appearance had been buried by the intense desire to murder the little brat that had done this to him.

"Granger," he growled dangerously as he stomped down the hall and headed for his classroom. "Hermione Granger is going to pay."

* * *

It was a quarter of eleven and Hermione and Harry were halfway through their Blood Replenishing potion. Harry was working slowly and methodically, but Hermione was breezing through her end of the ingredients. After what she'd accomplished this morning, this was nothing. Besides, the room was far more relaxed now that Professor Dumbledore was wandering around offering advice and praise, instead of Professor Snape menacing everyone and breathing down their necks.

But while the Gryffindor half of the class was pleased at this turn of events, the other half looked serious and concerned. Second period NEWT Potions was a double section and the sixth-year Slytherins wasted no time in asking Professor Dumbledore about Professor Snape's absence. The headmaster promptly replied that their Head of House had been brewing late, slipped on the floor, and concussed himself last night. He would be fine, but he was taking the day to recuperate.

That seemed to settle the Slytherins, and the class fell back into its normal routine … minus the usual trouble, since no one dared do anything stupid in front of the Headmaster. Harry and Hermione's potion was coming along quite well. It was almost time to add the last ingredient. Seamus Finnegan was holding his eyedropper of Scriffleberry Essence over his cauldron, ready to add three drops, when several things happened in quick succession.

The door flew open and Professor Snape burst into the classroom in his pajamas, dressing gown and slippers. Several people shrieked at the sight of him. He was unshaven, wide-eyed, and brandishing his wand. Seamus, very surprised at this, plopped eight drops of essence into his brew. It began to bubble ominously.

Seamus cursed, realizing what he'd done, and yelled, "Everybody duck!"

Everybody did.

"Professor Snape!" Dumbledore shouted, just as Seamus's cauldron exploded, showering his work station with goo and splattering everything within a four foot radius. Dumbledore ignored the chaos for a moment. "What is the meaning of this?"

Snape ignored him. He spotted Hermione and advanced on her like a snarling leopard on a trapped monkey.

"YOU!" he roared at her. "I know for a fact that I didn't open up my stores last night. I put a magical lock on the damn thing after that disaster two years ago with the Gillyweed. Only _my wand_ can open _that door_," he spat, pointing at his storage room behind Dumbledore. "And last night, it _did_! I have no memory of it! Out with it, Granger, what did you do?"

Hermione looked into those cold, dark eyes, and her breath caught in her throat at the memory of last night, when he'd asked her that very same question.

"I… What? You're insane!" she squeaked out. (It wasn't that much of a stretch. Snape really did look unhinged.)

Snape snarled at her and held up his wand. "I'll get the truth out of you, I swear I will!"

"I didn't do anything to you, you horrible man!" Hermione cried, grabbing Harry's arm in terror.

Harry threw himself protectively in front of her and gazed at Snape calmly, but Hermione could see a tendon in the back of his neck bulging.

"Stop yelling at my friend and go away," Harry said. His voice was very tight. It was as though he was attempting to holler at Snape, but something was holding him back.

"Stop yelling?" Snape yelled. "Oh, that's priceless!" He saw Dumbledore coming down the aisle, lost control completely, and turned his outrage on the Headmaster. "Do you realize what this little cheeky sneak did last night?" he hollered.

He didn't get any further. Dumbledore moved swiftly between Snape and Harry, seized Snape by the ear, and dragged the surprised and yelping professor out of the classroom. Dumbledore gave him a final push into the hallway and turned around to the students, half of whom were terrified, the other half quite impressed.

"I'm so sorry, everyone. Work by yourselves for a moment."

He closed the door. Naturally, no work got done. The class had a silent but fierce fight to see who would press their ears up against the door and who had to listen at the crack below, but it didn't really matter in the end. Even those who ended up a foot from the door could hear the argument quite clearly.

"For heaven's sake, Severus, have you lost your mind?" Dumbledore snapped outside.

"On the contrary, Headmaster, it appears I have found it!" Snape shouted back. "I went over my memories of last night. Hermione Granger lured me into my classroom, incapacitated me, and stole potions ingredients!"

At this, everybody turned and stared at Hermione. Hermione stared back with a look of perplexed, fearful innocence that could have won her a Barclay. Harry threw an arm around her in support. They all turned back to the door.

"And you know this how?" It was Dumbledore again. He sounded irritated and unconvinced.

"Because the little twit thought she could erase the event! She Obliviated me, terribly, I might add, and then either she or an accomplice knocked me out. I'd put my money on Weasley or Potter. I was left on the floor with a lump on my head and a bottle in my hand!"

There was a long pause. Nobody in the class had any clear idea of what Snape was talking about. Bottles? Memory charms?

"I thought he had a concussion!" said Draco Malfoy, a little too loudly. "What's this rubbish about a bottle?"

"Shhhh!" said everyone else.

"Severus," Dumbledore began. His voice was low and serious. "I know you hold grudges. I know you don't like Gryffindors. But to storm into a class, when you are supposed to be _resting_, and accuse some poor girl of attacking you in the middle of the night… I am disappointed in you. I can't believe that instead of admitting you were drinking, you would prefer to make up lies about students!"

Pansy Parkinson put her hands over her mouth in shock.

"So Snape's a drunk, is he? Well that explains a lot," said Parvati Patil.

Everyone shushed her, too.

"Albus, I told you, I was not drinking! Legilimize Granger! You'll see what _really_ happened last night!"

"Severus, that's not only illegal, it's immoral. Now kindly get a hold of yourself!"

"I will not!" Snape squawked. "She is a prevaricating, scheming little brat, and she must pay for what she did!"

"Stop making a scene and go back to your quarters! We will discuss this at day's end!"

"SHE'S LYING!" Snape roared.

"GO BACK TO BED! NOW!" Dumbledore roared back.

That seemed to end it. There was a long pause and everyone on the other side of the door listened with baited breath. Finally, they heard muttering and the sound of retreating footsteps. Soon there were more footsteps in their direction. They all ran back to their work stations and tried to look busy as Dumbledore came back in, composing himself. He looked around with his usual grandfatherly smile.

"How are we all doing?" he asked.

"Not very well, if you must know," said Seamus, partially covered in the goo from his cauldron. Dumbledore went over to help him.

"Thank heaven Ron didn't make it to NEWT potions," Hermione said in Harry's ear as she added their three drops of Scriffleberry Essence.

"Why do you say that?" Harry asked.

_Because he would have given himself away,_ she thought with a silent snort. Instead she said, "Well, if he'd been here, he might have throttled Snape. He's so ridiculously overprotective of me."

Harry did not smile at this joke, but merely nodded and went to work stirring.

That was the moment when studying and tests dropped to the bottom of Hermione Granger's worry list. She had to tell Ron about this incident, and they had to proceed with their plan as fast as they could. Severus Snape, an exceedingly intelligent man, was now exceedingly angry with her and confined to his room with nothing to do but think. He would find a way around her memory charm, re-live those ten critical minutes, and take the resulting evidence straight to Dumbledore, she had no doubt. The only question was when.

Actually, that wasn't the only question. There was also the question of what Snape would do on his _own_ when he found out. Hermione knew he worked for the Light, so he probably wouldn't kill her, but he was still a mean, vengeful bastard. Being his primary target did not excite her. Besides, there were secondary targets: the boys. _Oh, if anything happens to them… _She bit her lip as her head started to pound and briefly longed for yesterday, when things had been so simple. Yesterday, there was only one future riding on this plan.

Now, thanks to a botched charm and a shovel, there were three.

TBC

* * *

What did you think, folks? Let me hear it! (Or have it, depending.) See you May 21st!

Love,

Kiki :D


	11. X Thursday I

Hi everybody. Well, many days late and a dollar short, as usual. Sorry about that. Huge school obligations (which continued long past what I originally planned on), and then bizarre problems on the site, have kept me from publishing … until now. I just recently had a free day and managed to produce a mammoth chapter called "Thursday," the size of which I decided would scare people. I cut it in half and I am publishing both halves. So basically, you get two chapters in one shot, and yes this is a sad, sad attempt to appease you all for being so unbearably late. Sorry! Enjoy.

**Reviewers who hit chapter 9:** I'm posting my responses at the **end** of "**Thursday, part II**." Just so you know. :D

**CHAPTER TEN: Thursday, part I**

_Damn, not again_, thought Harry. He'd taken some with breakfast and even gotten excused from his first class (twice) to take some more. But Potions was only halfway over, and while the human stressor known as Severus Snape had just been chucked out after making a scene, Harry was starting to spasm. His left hand was shaking, and the twitch was rapidly spreading up his shoulder and into his chest, making all sorts of normally stationary muscles twist up and release in a jerking motion. He needed another sip, and right now, before anyone noticed him.

"P-Professor Dumbledore?" he asked quietly, raising his hand slightly and trying to prevent it from wobbling. "May I have a pass, sir? I need the restroom." In some dim corner of his mind, Harry knew that three weeks ago he would have been far too ashamed to say that in front of a bunch of Slytherins. But that was three weeks ago. This was now.

Mercifully, Dumbledore gave him a sage nod and dismissed him. Harry was out the door like a shot. Ten seconds of heavy breathing down the corridor, and he was in sight of the Boys' sign, decorated with a little wizard.

He didn't make it. Twelve feet from the restroom the world tilted to the left, and he dropped to his knees and slammed hard against the wall. His chest was constricting, his whole face curled into a wince as he pressed his wobbling hand to his front and gritted his teeth, gasping of air. Everything was shaking now. With one colossal effort, he managed to flip himself so his back was to the wall.

The twitching was so uncontrollable that he couldn't even get to his flask for a moment. He settled instead for trying to hold himself in check and staring around. The torches were always lit down here in the dungeons, their bright yellow flares lighting the way and bringing out the warm, glossy, obsidian glow of the black stone walls.

They also highlighted the sparkles in the extravagant, brilliantly-colored Slytherin tapestry displayed across the hall. It was a beautifully rendered picture of something called "The Peacock War." Figures of birds with proud plumage were cawing and fighting, doing their best to fend off a giant serpent. They weren't having much luck. Harry watched as the serpent lunged forward and ate one of the birds.

Even after waiting a moment, he was still shaking so badly that it was nearly impossible to put flask to lip, but he managed it in the end. Some of it dribbled out and splashed down his front. He capped the flask again with shaking hands. And finally, after an eternity, the twitches went away. Never before had it taken so long. Still leaning on the wall, his breath coming far too quickly, Harry stared at the tapestry, vying desperately for control over his shaking body. And that was when he noticed it.

The shimmering tapestry had gone many shades of gray. The torchlight was diamond white. The walls were made of shadows. Harry blinked, hard, and the whole scene snapped back into color. But for a few seconds, the entire world had gone black and white.

Odd, that.

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the morning dreading lunch. Ron had to be alerted, and soon. Of course he would be upset when she mentioned Snape, but better informed than a sitting duck, she figured. She took one trip to the restroom that ended up being a trip back to her dorm to check on the potion. It was puke green (one of the many intermediate stages), and smelled like her grandfather's arthritis cream. She stirred it, wrinkled her nose, and idly wondered if she'd done it right and it would eventually turn odorless and clear. It didn't look that promising at the moment.

After class she grabbed some fruit in the Great Hall and headed straight for the library to spend lunch alone. Ron would know where to find her.

* * *

At half past noon, Ron scarfed his lunch in the Great Hall and took off to find Hermione. There had been the usual unintentional bit of excitement in Care of Magical Creatures (some idiot nearly got a hand bit off by a Firecrab), but there were more exciting things going on than that. Had she gotten the potion to work? And what happened in class? Knowing Hermione, she was in the library, all alone, eating an apple and poring over some enormous, ancient tome that no one else would even think to pick up, much less read.

Ron dashed to the library and burst in. Madame Pince glared at him. He ignored her and headed straight for the study tables at the back. Sure enough, there she was, reading and taking notes from some book. At least, that's what it looked like from far away. Close to, it was apparent that Hermione wasn't reading. Her eyes weren't moving at all. She wasn't writing anything either, just moving the pen in the air over the same spot on her parchment and twirling her bushy hair with her free hand.

Ron sat down across from her and she looked up. Her eyes were clouded and her face was grey.

"Hermione?" Ron asked timidly. Something was wrong … on top of everything _else_ that was wrong.

"Snape knows," she said.

Ron sat back in shock. "What?"

"Well, he doesn't technically _know_ anything," Hermione clarified. "But he thinks I Obliviated him and he suspects you knocked him out. It's a short, angry leap from there to our mutual friend."

Ron cursed under his breath. This had all gone to hell. "Can he do anything to us?"

Hermione scoffed. "Of course he can. He's Snape! We do have a little luck, though. Dumbledore sent him to his room until classes are over."

Ron couldn't help it. A smile popped out. "Sent him to his room? Did he ground him, as well?"

Hermione's lips pinched, and that was the last of Ron's smile. It was not seen again for several minutes as he listened, open-mouthed, to Hermione's tale of what Snape had done in Potions class. By the time she finished, Ron was staring. Stomping in like a lunatic and demanding a Legilimency test? The man was frightening and nuts, and he was onto them. Best cut the tension, then.

"Well, there goes _his_ Christmas bonus," he cracked, and then quickly regretted it.

Hermione, obviously in no mood for jokes, was glaring at him. "Pay attention. The potion's fine, it's brewing in my room. It will be ready at eight tonight. And Snape is out of the way until 3:30. But that leaves four and a half hours of brewing to go once he's erm, 'released,' as it were. I'll watch it, but you need to take care of Harry."

The comment left Ron scratching his head.

Hermione's plan had seemed pretty clear-cut yesterday, when it was just 'brew the potion and help Harry dry out.' But he couldn't remember what exactly the 'help Harry dry out' part entailed. In fact, he wasn't even sure they'd ever discussed it.

"So … right. What do we do again?"

Hermione's reaction made him snort. He always thought that little "nnnrgh!" noise she made when she was annoyed was pretty funny.

"_We_ will not do anything. How many times have I told you? We absolutely _can't_ get caught together, Ron! When the potion's ready, I'll signal you with a DA coin. _You _will then get Harry alone and get his hip flask away from him … permanently. And you'd better make it look like an accident, because he can't make us for this until he'd all dried out. I'll head up and clean out your dorm of any illicit ingredients."

That made sense to Ron, at least in theory. But there was just one thing …

"Erm, Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"How exactly am I supposed to get his flask away from him and make it look like an accident?"

"Ron, you have …" Hermione checked her watch. "Approximately seven hours to think about that. I'm sure you'll come up with something. Now make yourself scarce. I have to pretend to work."

Ron felt a shiver run down his spine. This wasn't going to be easy. "What do I do until tonight?"

"Act natural."

"Well, what if I see Snape?"

"Walk away."

"Oh yeah?" Ron finished, feeling clever. "And what if Snape comes after me, what then?"

Hermione blinked twice at him and said, quite matter-of-factly, "Run."

* * *

Snape was staring at his lunch with a look generally reserved for bad news and anything concerning Hufflepuff house. His breakfast was still untouched, but this latest arrival, a plate of steak and seasoned rice courtesy of the house elves, was jiggling itself a bit and doing its best to look appetizing. Snape turned away from it with a snort. This was ridiculous. Here he was, a teacher and a very powerful wizard, Obliviated by some nitwit Gryffindor, brained by her accomplice, and now stuck in his chambers, which, incidentally, he felt his incompetence fully deserved.

All he could do was thank whatever gods existed that Poppy had made no noise to announce her presence outside his classroom that morning. It was humiliating enough that Albus had loudly sent him away in front of the students. They didn't need to know that the nurse had actually taken him back to his room, pushed him inside and locked him in, and he had been too angry and confused and … weak … to fight back. No one needed to know this, especially not his Slytherins.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, _his mind scolded. What sort of horrible example had he just set for them? Rowing with the Headmaster? Charging in like a madman and threatening a candidate for Head Girl? Of course he'd had his reasons, and the whole situation was incredibly unfair. But _life_ was incredibly unfair. And if it was one thing he impressed upon his students, it was that cunning and preparation were _everything_ when it came to fighting that unfairness.

How ironic. After all his coaching on discipline and self-control, he'd stomped in howling with rage and acted like a bloody … Gryffindor. The very word made him wince. How on earth was he going to fix this? Surely the story of what happened had spread through the school by now. The Slytherins needed to know that this was merely an aberration, that he was still the same, still their Head of House, still capable of looking after them. A house meeting would be in order, definitely. Tonight.

Locating his calendar in the study, he found the correct month and day, took out a quill and wrote "House Meeting – all Slytherins please report to the Common Room at 7 pm," in elegant script. Despite his throbbing headache, he kept his dark eyes focused and watched as the words shimmered green for a moment then returned to black. His message had just appeared on the giant calendar above the Slytherin common area's fireplace.

That, however, would hardly be enough to attract his students. So he sighed and added another line: "Topic of discussion: Professor Snape." Then, thinking _that_ might not even be enough, he threw in one last thing: "Refreshments will be served."

Overkill, perhaps, but at least that would ensure attendance at this meeting he would lead … provided Albus came by and let him out before he went stir-crazy and tried to escape through the charmed windows. He went back to his breakfast table and sat down heavily, still ignoring his food, his cramping stomach, and his aching head. Now that the blinding anger was ebbing away, and he was done with his little duty of calling the meeting, he was raw with humiliation. And worst of all, the Headmaster, a person whose friendship and trust he could ill afford to lose, now had obvious doubts about his competency.

"I am not a drunk," he said to nothing. "And I am fully in control of myself."

Then his mind asked him a question that had been plaguing him since he got back from his row with Albus.

_Are you sure? _

No, he wasn't. When the Headmaster came to speak to him, though, he knew he had to be, or risk straining his relations with the man even further.

Snape scratched his head. Surely there was some way he could give Albus better proof of what happened to him. He absently looked up and saw the shadow of some flying thing as it flitted by the charmed window. And it hit him.

Of course! He winced as the idea didn't just enter his mind … it practically blew the door off its hinges and stomped inside. He could have _kicked_ himself for forgetting about them!

Ignoring his food again, he stood up and made for his library.

* * *

It was a quarter to four. Classes had let out fifteen minutes ago, and somewhere in the back of Harry's head, he knew that he should have been eager to avoid schoolwork and go play some Quidditch with Ron. Instead, he was in the library, studying and keeping his eyes on his textbook. It was the least disconcerting thing he could find to stare at. After all, what better to keep his focus than by looking at black words on pale parchment?

His vision had been going wonky all day, and for some reason he found this didn't bother him very much. The periods of black-and-white were getting longer every time he took a drink (every hour on the hour). It finally happened at around three o'clock. Harry's world went permanently into the realm of ciaroscuro.

The appropriate phrase would have been "much to his surprise, he didn't care," but the fact was that Harry had no surprise left; no care left, even. Nothing really mattered anymore, and his vision seemed to reflect that. Without color, there was less feeling, less meaning.

Then again, his life had never meant much to begin with.

* * *

At a quarter to four, Dumbledore un-spelled a secret dungeon door, walked into an apartment, and was greeted by an unexpected sight. After the outburst that morning, he expected the Potions Master to be climbing the walls, but Severus Snape was doing no such thing. Instead, he was sitting at his breakfast table, two untouched plates of food before him, and reading a book. He looked up just as Dumbledore closed the door behind him and tapped it with his wand.

"Albus," he acknowledged.

Dumbledore inclined his head, regarding the teacher warily. "Severus. Calmed down, I trust?"

Snape marked his place in Batty for Bats: a Guide to Scottish Specimens and carefully set it down on the table. He was making a show, albeit a very subtle one, of looking imperious and in control … normal, in other words.

"Considerably," he replied.

Dumbledore did not honestly believe this, but the younger man no longer looked like a wild-eyed lunatic, so he took a seat across from Snape in another wooden chair and regarded him through his half-moon spectacles. He stared until it was almost rude, and then sighed. Best get this over with quickly.

"I know you don't appreciate small-talk, Severus, so I will come straight to the point. You must tell me what happened last night, and you must be truthful. I will not leave until you do."

"I was attacked," Snape said evenly.

Dumbledore took off his spectacles and rubbed his nose. "Severus, please. The bottle. Did something happen? I need to know."

Snape appeared slightly cross. He looked down his rather prominent nose at Dumbledore. "Albus, how many times do I need to tell you? Nothing happened! Even if I had been called to a Death Eater meeting and seen something horrible, a fact to which I would have alerted you _immediately_, I assure you that _nothing _I could have witnessed would _ever_ bring me to take shots of whiskey, straight from the _bottle_, no less, until I passed out. You know that."

Dumbledore was caught. He _did_ know that. And as much as he wanted to pin down some sensible reason for having found one of his teachers in such a bad way, the fact was that this sort of behavior was more suited to someone like Argus, or Hagrid. But Severus? It just didn't make sense. The man preferred his liquor well-aged and in a glass, not fermented willy-nilly and spilled all over his night-shirt.

"Let's assume, for the moment, that you were attacked," Dumbledore said. "Do you have proof? And by proof, I do not mean your grouchy, hazy memory of the event, which, even _you_ must admit, is far from objective."

"I understand your point," said Snape. "Very well, since you find my perspective unworthy," he tossed off casually, "what if you were to see a version of events that did not come from me?"

Dumbledore felt slightly hurt at Snape's remark. He did trust the man, just not when it came to Gryffindor. But Snape would only dig in further if he reacted like "Albus," so he reacted like the Headmaster of Hogwarts.

"If you are again suggesting that I Legilimize poor Miss Granger, who you terrified so _thoroughly_ this morning," he replied coldly, "I will tell you no."

"I was hardly suggesting that," replied Snape. "I meant another perspective, a completely objective one."

He steepled his fingers, and Albus knew that look in his eyes. The Potions Master was gauging the Headmaster's every facial expression. Dumbledore decided to take the bait. It would be the perfect way to see if Severus really had his wits about him.

"Go on."

Snape nodded. "Very well. As you obviously know, I am a bit … cautious … in maintaining my classroom than some of the other teachers in this school, since I am forced to stock very powerful ingredients and keep them around nosy children."

Dumbledore almost snorted when Snape said "cautious." "Paranoid" was more like it. But he let him continue, even conjuring himself a pot of tea and a cup. He served himself and listened.

"Since the incident with the Boomslang skin four years ago, I decided to add an extra bit of security to the dungeons, particularly at night. The idea seemed harmless enough, and so I didn't alert anyone."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and took a sip of tea. Snape's 'harmless ideas' over the years had, more often than not, been not quite as harmless as he had intended.

"I see. And what was this idea?"

"Security Bats," said Snape.

There was a long, highly uncomfortable pause during which Dumbledore looked at Snape as though debating which ward at St. Mungo's would be best for him, and Snape looked anywhere but at Dumbledore.

"I beg your pardon?" the Headmaster asked finally.

"Security Bats," Snape repeated firmly.

Dumbledore put down his tea. "Severus, erm, bats are … not easily trained, particularly to attack things."

"Oh, they don't attack," Snape explained. "They simply watch. They've been working downstairs for me for years."

Bats that kept _watch_, of all things. Now Dumbledore had heard everything.

"Severus, please do not be insulted, but have you ever heard the phrase 'blind as a bat?' I fail to see how having _bats_ act as guards would be useful."

"Their eyesight leaves much to be desired, yes, but their hearing is impeccable. They can catch things most humans miss, particularly in a completely dark room."

Dumbledore stared at the tired, unshaven man before him and felt compelled to take off his glasses and rub his nose again. If it was anything he hated seeing more than a half-deranged, rumpled Snape, it was a half-deranged, rumpled Snape with a point.

"Fine," he conceded. "But you can't say you _employ_ them, Severus. That's madness."

"I don't employ them, it's more like an equal trade-off," Snape responded, slightly annoyed. "I have arranged for the bats have a temperature-regulated cavern to themselves and plenty of food, and in return, they watch the classroom for me at night. Since there hasn't been an incident since the Gillyweed, I'd almost forgotten they were there."

"And how many bats … er … are in your service?" Dumbledore found himself asking, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"There are approximately fifty. It's a colony of pipistrelles. I don't keep in close contact with them, but their numbers have been growing over the years. Really, for all I know, they send out a different group of watch-bats every night of the week. That's why I've been brushing up on my bat-calls." Snape indicated his book on the table. "I need to go down to the cavern and figure out who was on duty last night."

This was making a terrifying sort of sense, Dumbledore realized. "In other words, you are telling me that a _bat_ would have seen, and _remembered_, mind you, what happened in your classroom."

"Yes," said Snape, obviously making a huge effort to rein himself in. "However, bat memories are notoriously short, so it is imperative that I locate the appropriate bats before last night 'gets away from them,' as it were. If I can persuade you to come along, I am willing to catch them, and then you may take a look into their minds, tiny as they are, and see everything that went on. Since you obviously don't trust my version of events, you may have the first look at what happened to me."

Snape sat back and crossed his arms. Dumbledore drained the last of his tea and thought for a moment. So Snape wanted to leave his rooms to catch bats, did he? He thought that sounding moderately sane and organized and snarky would be enough to do it? He chuckled. He wasn't about to be manipulated that easily. Really, for all of Severus Snape's intellectual gifts, the man could be phenomenally stupid sometimes.

"Very well, Severus, I am willing to accompany you on your bat hunt … but I'm afraid it will have to wait for a while."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Well you see," Dumbledore said, standing up and making a big show of looking elderly and frail, "I charmed the door when I came in. It will not open for you or function normally, nor will your day clothes reappear, until you eat, rest for two hours, and take a bath."

Snape face had gone slack and white. "Wh-What?" he said, then rallied quickly. "Albus, I understand your reaction this morning, throwing me in here, but I am a grown man."

"Oh yes, as you have so recently proven," Dumbledore replied, softening the dig with a little smile. "Come now, Severus. Eat something," he urged, motioning at the untouched breakfast and lunch. "The sooner you do, the sooner you can rest. The sooner you rest, the sooner you can clean yourself up and put on clothes." He ignored Snape's angry stare and swept to the door. "And the sooner you do that, the sooner this door will open. You can then moderate your house meeting and settle your Slytherins, something which is of the utmost importance to you, I am sure. Good day," he finished gently and slipped out the door, closing it and spelling it shut behind him.

Dumbledore stopped outside the door and listened. He heard some stomping around for a few moments, some annoyed muttering, and finally jumped at the sudden explosion of "RAARRGH!" that came through. But he just wrote that off to Snape's general frustration with the universe and went on his merry way.

TBC

* * *

By the way, before you go on, please tell me if the concept of Security Bats struck you as funny, odd, stupid, etc. I'd be very interested to know. Thanks! 


	12. XI Thursday II

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: Thursday, part II**

Hermione had been a bundle of jangled nerves all day, but as seven o'clock rolled around, the very hour began to fill her with dread. She was alone in the dorm room she shared with Parvati and Lavender, fingering her DA coin with one hand and stirring her potion gently with the other. It was gradually turning clear and losing its odor, a signal that it was approaching doneness. She glanced at the mess around her. All her books and parchment were spread out on her bed, as though she were in the middle of doing homework. She, meanwhile, was sitting on the edge of her mattress, facing away from the door, watching the potion.

Ron was out and about somewhere. She knew he had his own DA coin in his pocket, but the last time she saw him was at dinner, and he'd given no indication of how he was going to get Harry's flask away from him without being made. The fact that one of the most crucial tasks tonight was up to a Hogwarts' underachiever did not bring her any comfort, but Ron was Harry's best mate. It was a better choice.

"Hi Hermione, what are you doing?" asked Parvati, from out of nowhere.

Hermione screamed. At least she hadn't been stirring. Parvati jumped, and then regarded Hermione warily as she stood up and faced the other girl, deliberately standing in front of the cauldron.

"Oh, Parvati, you scared me!" Hermione explained, putting one hand over her thumping heart.

"Sorry. I thought you heard me come in. What's that behind your back?"

"There's nothing behind my back." Hermione tossed off the lie with frightening ease. "I was just having some alone time between essays. Lost in thought."

And Parvati laughed. "Hermione Granger, lost in thought? Get out! That doesn't happen! It's obvious you haven't a brain in your head!"

Hermione looked mock offended and stuck her tongue out, which just made Parvati laugh even harder.

"I'm actually up here for Lav's coat," Parvati explained. "She said she left it on her bed, but I didn't see it."

"The purple one?" Hermione asked. "I saw her hang it up in the wardrobe." As Parvati went to get it, Hermione kept up the friendly conversation. "Why didn't she come up and get it herself?"

Parvati giggled as she grabbed Lavender's purple pea coat. "She's down in the Great Hall, talking to Zacharias Smith. The way they're going on, they'll be outside before too long, if you know what I mean, so I just thought I'd take the liberty …"

Hermione did not need to listen to another "Parvati story." She'd heard quite enough of those, living with the girl five years.

"Parvati, dear?" Hermione asked, showing all her teeth. "I'm quite busy. Would it offend you terribly if I asked you to leave?"

And Parvati smiled the smile of someone used to the dry wit of Hermione Granger.

"Not at all," she said, and with a smooth motion, she swept up Lavender's coat and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Hermione sat down on her bed again to face the potion, and let out a breath she didn't even know she'd been holding.

* * *

Snape was furious. Dumbledore had deliberately timed this, he just knew it. The charmed door had forced him to eat his breakfast immediately (which needed warming first), lie down for two hours (with one eye on his bedside clock), get up quickly, and take the world's fastest bath (something he hated hurrying through). Only then did his clothes reappear and by then it was a quarter of seven. He had ten minutes to make himself presentable, three to reach the Slytherin Common Room, and two to conjure refreshments for many, many children. There would be no time to look for the bats until after eight o'clock, at least, and something in his gut told him there was no time to waste.

The common area quickly filled up with Slytherins. And as soon as the students were all holding drinks and cookies, the comments and questions began to fly. The room was buzzing. It was cacophony.

"Professor, what happened last night?" Pansy Parkinson. Genuinely concerned. Ally.

"Sir, the whole school's talking about it! The rumors are flying!" Blaise Zabini. Friendly blabbermouth. Unhelpful, but harmless.

"So how long have you been a lush?" Theodore Nott. Oh, that twit was going to get it.

And … "So who planted that bottle on you?" Draco Malfoy. Snape wondered why he had ever doubted the boy's intellect.

For the moment, he clenched his teeth at the barrage of commentary, let out a breath through his nose, and prepared to set the record straight for a room full of (mostly) worried-looking Slytherins. The sooner he took care of this, the sooner they could finish up the rest of the house business, and then he could look for the bats and get this mystery solved. He held up a hand and the room quieted immediately.

"I am not, and have never been a 'lush,' as Mr. Nott so kindly put it," he began. "What you saw and heard, mostly second-hand I imagine, were the results of a most abysmal cover-up of an ambush."

Stunned silence. Mouths ajar. Food forgotten.

"Now, you are all Slytherins. You understand the importance of cunning, and sometimes ambushing someone else to get the upper hand. However, someone has done this to your Head of House. The results were a serious concussion and a charge by the Headmaster that I am a drunkard in my off-hours, something I find offensive in the extreme. Thoughts?"

He was answered by a very angry hissing noise that filled the room. The show of support made him smile just a little.

"Thank you," he continued. "Now, unless there are any more questions, there are other issues we need to discuss."

* * *

Ron was getting impatient. It was almost 8:03 and his coin still hadn't heated up yet. Besides, he was running out of ideas. He was on the Quidditch pitch with Harry, who was looking more glum than ever, like he wanted to be anywhere than up on a broomstick.

"Hey, maybe we could … nah, it's stupid," Ron said, trying for the umpteenth time to engage Harry in a conversation.

But Harry didn't respond. It was like his best mate didn't have any facial expressions left. Right after Ron said 'it's stupid,' Harry just blinked at him. And that was when Ron saw his eyes. They weren't green anymore. They were completely, and unnaturally, gray.

Probably a bad thing, but Ron knew he couldn't let on.

Harry had been acting like a zombie all afternoon and didn't touch his dinner. And it was getting so obvious that other Gryffindors were starting to notice, so afterwards Ron had forced Harry to get outside in the fresh air and they'd been here ever since, hanging out on the Quidditch pitch. Ron had taken Harry's broom up, and Harry had just watched him circle around.

So now they were attempting to talk, painful as it was. Thankfully, Hermione's coin picked that moment to heat up in his pocket, and Ron wasted no time. He'd come up with his plan in a sudden burst of inspiration, and no one could deny it was brilliant. It would be just like him not to learn anything from that whole thing with Parvati, anyway.

He wandered out into the middle of the deserted Quidditch field, crooked a finger at Harry, and looked pleased when his mate followed him and stood about six paces away.

"Hey Harry!" he shouted. "Think fast!"

With that, he picked up a clump of mud from the field and hurled it at Harry. Splat! It got Harry right in the shirt.

Harry looked at him with his mouth hanging open and said, in a quiet voice, "Why did you do that?"

"I dunno, throwing mud is fun!" said Ron. He picked up another glob of the stuff and hurled it at his rather surprised friend, who seemed to be too shocked to move. It caught him right in the middle, and slopped down onto his trousers.

"Whee!" Ron yelled, knowing he must look like a complete idiot. But he had to keep up appearances.

"Eww," said Harry, with no enthusiasm, and then, with even less, "Ron, you prat, stop it."

Ron started laughing. "Is that the best you can do? Come on, have at me! You've been in such a funk I was starting to think you'd turned into a zombie or something!"

Harry did not smile at this jibe. Instead, he followed instructions. He gathered up a clump of mud and hurled it at Ron. It just caught his shoulder.

"Pathetic," Ron replied, and lobbed one last well-aimed ball of mud at Harry. It caught him right in the crotch, exploding all over his trousers.

Harry observed this, straightened his glasses, and crossed his arms at Ron. "I'm not having much fun. Are you finished?" he asked calmly.

"Yeah, guess so. But don't worry about your clothes, Harry, I can fix it," Ron said cheerfully, pulling out his wand and aiming it at Harry's jeans. "_SCOURGIFO_!"

"Ron, no," said Harry, but it was too late.

Ron's mangling of "_Scourgify_" had intensified the spell immensely. It not only made the enormous mud splatter disappear … it made Harry's _trousers_ disappear, too.

Complete with hip flask.

Harry stood there, stunned, staring at his gray underpants and his bare, skinny legs, realized his flask was gone, realized all that _entailed_, and fell to his knees in the mud. Ron ran over.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!" he babbled, squelching any feelings of triumph. "Geez, mate, I never intended for that to happen! Quick, let's get you inside before your legs freeze off! Oh damn, I really need to work on my spell pronunciation."

Ron threw an arm around his friend's shoulders and bit his tongue against the amusing look of shock on Harry's face. It was the most comforting thing he'd seen all day.

* * *

Hermione, meanwhile, was holding up a large vial of clear liquid, firmly corked. She'd just signaled Ron to do his deed, and this stuff was perfect, if she did say so herself. The antidote was completely odorless and colorless, exactly as it should be. She hid the vial under her bed, put out the fire under her cauldron and tucked that away as well, then slipped down the stairs into the common area. Neville was sitting by the fire, reading some huge Herbology text. He gave her a wave as she walked by, which she returned, and walked up the stairs into boys' dormitory to do her part: clearing out their room.

"Where are you going?" Neville asked behind her. Hermione scrunched her eyes shut for a moment and turned around.

"Oh, Ron said I could borrow his Quidditch book for a Muggle Studies report," she said, "You know, differences between Quidditch and football. Rather inane, but there you are."

"Oh, you don't have to tell me twice how stupid that course is. What's football, again?" Neville asked.

Hermione laughed and continued on up the stairs. But just then, the portrait opened. She turned around, not really expecting a problem. That, naturally, was a mistake, since problems generally appear when you least expect them. Ron came stumbling in, one arm around Harry. Harry wasn't wearing any trousers, but Hermione glossed over that fact for a moment because oh _crap_, they were _way_ too early.

"Ron?" she asked, and much to her dismay, caught Harry's attention too.

"Hermione?" Ron asked back, looking utterly clueless, which was very bad. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going into your room," she answered. "Remember that Quidditch book you said you lend me but you never did? Well, I'm going _into _your room to get it!" she finished peevishly, and finally Ron seemed to figure it out, because his eyes got huge.

"Where are Harry's trousers?" Neville suddenly interrupted.

"Ron cleaned them clear off me," Harry said gloomily, gathering his robes tightly around himself. "He got mud on me and went overboard with the_ Scourgify_. Just like with Parvati."

"Only you won't dump him, I bet!" Neville joked.

Hermione and Ron laughed, but Harry did not. He just blinked. It was as though he hadn't heard the comment. Ron exchanged a frantic glance with Hermione. She motioned toward the portrait hole, hoping against hope Ron would understand what that meant.

"Er, why don't we go to the kitchens, Harry?" Ron suggested.

It took everything in Hermione to keep from rolling her eyes. Of all the stupid things he could have said!

"Ron, what the eff is the matter with you? I'm not going to traipse through Hogwarts with no trousers on," Harry complained, but without any emotion.

"Laundry," Ron blurted out. "I meant the laundry. I think that was your last pair of jeans, mate. What say we just go down and see if a house-elf can rustle you up a clean?"

"Well, if you think so – oh!" said Harry as Ron shoved him back through the portrait hole.

Neville, who had watched all of this in mystified silence, turned to Hermione thoughtfully.

"Is it my imagination, or is something weird going on with Harry lately? He seemed downright glum at dinner last night, and tonight he was just spooky."

Hermione fought down her rising panic as she looked at Neville. "He's probably just feeling a bit blue. Everyone gets like that sometimes. I'm sure he'll be back to normal soon enough."

"Yeah, you're right, these things have a way of working themselves out," said Neville sagely, and went back to his book.

The instant his head went down, Hermione darted up the stairs, out of sight of the common room, and into the dormitory where Harry slept. She closed the door, cast _Silencio_ on it, pushed up her sleeves, whipped out her wand and went to work, since she had no idea how much time Ron had bought her. If he got Harry all the way to the laundry and back, it was ten minutes. If Harry argued his way back to the tower on the premise that Ron knew nothing about the state of his laundry (which he didn't) … maybe two.

"_Accio_!"

She yelled it repeatedly, sitting on Harry's bed and drawing an alarming amount of illegal and expensive substances into a huge pile before her. She yelled until the tiniest traces had made their way onto the bed, until nothing came at all, until she was hoarse, until she was staring at a towering heap of glass bottles of Firewhisky, big bags of Opal sugar, and at least a case of dried crushed Billywig.

She took a moment to marvel at the amount of rubbish in front of her. Then, drawing her power to her, and terrified by the approach of footsteps on the stairs, she concentrated with everything she had and produced a powerful _Evanesco_. With a whoosh, everything on the bed vanished, leaving only Hermione and a few specks of dust. Not a second too soon.

The door opened and Harry walked in, his voice quiet, arguing with Ron all the way to his chest of drawers about just wanting to put on pajamas and crawl into bed. He didn't even notice Hermione, and she took the opportunity to give Ron a thumbs-up before loudly complaining …

"Ron, this place is a pigsty! I've looked everywhere and I can't find that damn book you promised me! Where is it?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, I'll get it!" he said, with his usual annoyance, and casually pulled Flying with the Cannons from underneath a heap of dirty laundry. "There you are, _my lady_," he finished snidely, giving her a little bow and handing it over.

Hermione made sure to wrinkle her nose when he handed it to her. And Ron gave her a warm smile and wink that Harry couldn't see.

"Would you two please get out of here? I want to get changed," said Harry. He had pulled some pajamas from his chest of drawers.

"Sure, sorry, Harry," said Ron.

Hermione followed him out and closed the door behind him. They were up the stairs enough that they were out of sight of the common area, so it was safe to whisper.

"Did you get it all?" Ron hissed in her ear.

She nodded. "Did you get his flask?"

"It was in his trousers," Ron whispered back, and Hermione stifled a nervous laugh. As precarious as things were, they seemed to be coming along. The only question was, had they gotten to him in time? She brushed that thought aside.

"Good on you," she said.

"Good on us," Ron corrected.

* * *

Finally alone, Harry sighed, pulling off his muddy jumper carefully and putting it in the laundry. He slipped into pajamas and sat down on the bed.

Stupid Ron.

Stupid EFFING Ron. That lout had no idea what he'd done, but now Harry would have to start a new batch, and quick. Never mind his certain lack of privacy in a few minutes. All he needed were some of his main ingredients.

Rather than call out "_Accio_," which was sure to attract suspicion, he went around hunting up his stuff the Muggle way, poking around behind bookcases and at the back of his wardrobe. His first hint that something was wrong was the lack of the Opal sugar in its usual place. He ran and dove under his bed, looking for some Firewhisky. Nothing. He poked around the bottom of his closet, feeling for the small box of Billywig.

The leisurely "poking around" quickly turned into a frenzy of activity. Harry started to rip the room apart looking for his ingredients, finally saying "_Accio_!" once or twice, but nothing happened. Whereas this morning he'd had enough ingredients to make Fizz for all of Gryffindor tower, now he had none at all.

But the scariest part was right after he realized he wouldn't be able to make any more of his elixir. Instead of feeling angry and confused, he just felt … nothing at all. Unable to tell if that was a good thing or not, unable, in fact, to remember what good _meant_, he sat down on his bed and stared off into space, his eyes empty and gray.

* * *

Hermione turned to Ron outside the door. They'd both winced as they heard Harry tearing through his things looking for ingredients that weren't there, but the noises had stopped.

"We'll start treating him tomorrow," she said firmly. "Just barge in there right now. He'll be suspicious if you don't. And remember, you're terribly sorry about the accident."

Ron nodded. "Hey, 'Mione? That stuff you cooked up, it'll cure him, right?"

"If he _can_ be cured," Hermione mumbled. After a few days of watching their friend go from bad to worse, she had to ask Ron the obvious question. "Did you see his eyes?"

"Yeah," Ron replied heavily. "I saw his eyes."

TBC

* * *

**Reviewers**! **Infall**, thanks for the comments. They're always appreciated. **EAV**: Aw man, that review was the light of MY day. Thank you! I'm glad you liked the whack-a-prof remark. I had fun writing it. **Stahchild**, if I screwed up Dumbledore, don't be afraid to say so. LOL There's more Dumbledore in chapter 10, and he's surprisingly adept, so maybe I made up for that last chapter. Hee hee Let me know what you think of him. Thanks for all your support. **Shiba**, I'm so glad you liked the scene with Hermione and Myrtle, and that you're enjoying. Yay! Sorry that it was later than the 21st, but hey, at least it's here! Enjoy. **Freja**! Thanks for reviewing. It's always nice to hear from you. Weeeell, I thought I'd publish the 21st, but it ended up being … what is this? The 29th. Ah, well. Ain't life always that way? Cheers! **Angel**, that's an awesome idea, but alas, there will be no Snape song, because I can't figure out how one would go. If you want to write one, I will include it, have Parvati Patil sing it, and give you credit. I'm serious. :D **Kiwi**: I'm so glad the memory thing worked. Actually, I think you're the only reviewer who commented on it, and I was kind of worried about it, to be honest. I didn't know if it was "too Muggle," but if it worked, then that's great. :D Thanks for answering my other question. **IAmAPoet**: Thanks for your review:) 


	13. XII Hell

Reviewers: **Infall**, thanks as always for your support and praise. It means a lot. :D **Angel**, thanks for being my extra set of eyes (I fixed the arthritis cream remark in Ch. 10) and for being so inspirational. Parvati sings the first verse of your Snape song in this chapter, and I was so inspired by your song that it became the basis for a Gryffindor Snape prank. Hee! **Kiwi**, you rock, you're basically one of my de facto betas on this, and you're certainly not dumb --- the Ron thing was completely my error. The reason it was confusing was because I had him say the wrong spell! I went back and fixed that. Thank you also for pointing out the weirdness of Harry's weirdness, as it were, in Ch. 11. I fixed that, too. As to Snape being a bat animagus, that's a really interesting theory. I'm just glad the security bat concept didn't strike you as stupid. Huzzah! And you will get Hermione's POV on Harry's exposed body parts, just not in this chapter. LOL **Shiba**, you rule. "The healing." LOL I'm still laughing, man. That was genius. Thank you so much for coming back to the story, and I'm glad you're still enjoying, even though that last update was unbearably late. **IAm**, thank you so much for your continued support. I'm glad you like this!

Notes:

1) I hereby credit Angel Princess Stephanie for her lovely contribution to this chapter. See Reviewer notes above.

2) As I do not advocate Harry torture, the following was very hard to write. :o(

**CHAPTER TWELVE: Hell**

By Thursday evening, half the school knew about Snape. By Friday morning, the _entire_ school knew about Snape. So it was only natural that the two biggest gossips in Gryffindor would have something to say about it. Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were on their way to Transfiguration when Parvati burst into song. **  
**

"Alas my dear Professor," she warbled, "feeling the need to escape, now known as a transgressor, named Master …"

Parvati paused for effect and Lavender laughed. Then suddenly Lavender's eyes got very big.

"Oooh, Vati, you just gave me a marvelous idea! And it will make Transfiguration slide by!"

Parvati looked at Lavender with something like worry. Admittedly, neither of the two girls was the brightest fairy-light on the tree, but Parvati at least knew enough to be concerned whenever Lavender had a "marvelous idea."

This couldn't be anything good.

* * *

Harry had turned to Ron for a moment at breakfast when something cold touched his fingers. He looked ahead again. Hermione put his goblet in his hand, full of cold pumpkin juice. He gulped it down and waited impatiently for Hermione and Ron to finish so they could all walk to Transfiguration together. Glancing at Hermione quickly, he saw that her hair was sepia brown, as was the rest of the world – not black-and-white like last night, but not colorized, either. Things were somewhere in between.

There was a quiz in Transfiguration today (changing a mole into a molehill) and since it was the first class after breakfast Harry knew he should be concentrating on that. But his mind was elsewhere; he was wholly consumed with what had happened last night. Someone had stolen all his ingredients, which meant that someone knew he was making Fizz. But the thief hadn't reported him, so he figured the selfish sleazeball who raided his dorm was hoarding the ingredients somewhere, probably cooking up a batch of elixir right now.

His heart was beating very fast. Not from anger or passion, of course. It was simply his body's way of telling him that it was extremely unhappy about the lack of Fizz. Worse, he was quivering constantly. Robes could hide a lot of things, but he needed to stick his hand out to wave his wand in Transfiguration, and someone was bound to notice that it wasn't steady at all. There had been no drink this morning upon waking up, and no sip at breakfast. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage today. He decided to walk as far ahead of Hermione and Ron as he could without being rude. Perhaps, he thought, if he didn't get too close to them, they wouldn't be able to tell anything was wrong.

The trio was in sight of the classroom when all thoughts of Transfiguration, Fizz, and his friends flew out of Harry's head, pushed out by a strong urge to use the restroom. He actually felt his bladder getting bigger and bigger, expanding like an inflating balloon. Shaking uncontrollably and feeling like he was going to soil himself any moment, he turned to his friends and tightly said, "Tell McGonagall I'll be late. Please."

Hermione and Ron watched as he clumsily made haste to the boys' room down the hall. Harry never saw Hermione's grim smile.

* * *

"Good," she said. "It's working."

"Yeah, good job getting it into his juice," Ron said distractedly. Then, "Hang on, what do you mean, 'it's working'? Is he going to be running to the loo every time he takes some?"

Hermione sighed. "Probably, and he'll feel very sick in-between. See, _Perspectus Nova_ seeks out the toxins Fizz leaves behind in the blood, and renders them harmless. But that fight really takes its toll on the body. And the neutralized toxins and waste have to go somewhere, so PN deposits them in the digestive tract … none too gently." She finished with a wince.

Ron winced too. "He'll be doing _that_ for two days? Bloody hell."

"If he complains, I'll suggest it's the stomach flu," Hermione said. "Besides, you know Harry. He'll be too proud, or too scared, to see Madame Pomfrey. We won't force his hand."

"So we're in the clear," Ron said.

"Hopefully."

* * *

Minerva McGonagall walked into the staff room at lunch, sat down on a chair and began to eat some soup she'd brought up with her from the Great Hall. A fire was blazing in the grate and a few other instructors were hanging about. Thaddeus Erring, the new Defense teacher, was sitting by the window reading a book and finishing a sandwich. Flitwick was stretched out on the couch (this wasn't saying much), napping with one arm slung over his eyes. Snape was sitting by the fire, marking essays and eating an apple.

McGonagall charmed her soup to levitate next to her and turned to Snape.

"Severus, we have a small problem."

"Pardon?" asked Snape, not even looking up from his paperwork. He took a bite of his apple and began to chew.

"It would seem that your little 'episode' Wednesday night is public knowledge," McGonagall said, taking a piece of parchment from her pocket. "I caught two of my students passing a note about you in class."

Snape looked up. "What?" he said through a mouthful of apple.

"Don't worry, I've punished them."

He swallowed and gathered his composure. "I'm afraid I'm a bit behind you. A note? About me?"

"It's a poem, actually. Sort of a round-robin. Different people have added different verses."

Snape snorted indignantly and went back to work. McGonagall didn't even ask him if he wanted to hear the poem, she knew he wouldn't. So she sat there chewing her lower lip for a moment, wondering what to do.

"Filius?" she finally asked the apparently sleeping Flitwick. "Would you care to hear it?"

"Delighted," the unmoving wizard replied immediately.

Snape brought his head up, a very sour look on his face.

"Excellent!" McGonagall said, and stood up. Erring, obviously eager to hear the poem, sat down next to Flitwick. Binns came floating through the wall, followed by Nearly-Headless Nick. And worse, Dumbledore picked that moment to walk in, followed by Professor Sinistra, who was chatting animatedly to Professor Vector about galactic constants in rune equations.

Snape's eyes began to dart, looking for an exit.

"Oh, hello all," said McGonagall pleasantly.

"Minerva," Dumbledore said kindly. He took a look at the gray sky outside and commented, "A fine day to spend lunchtime indoors, I think. What do you have there?"

"It's a rather nasty poem that some of my students wrote about Professor Snape."

"She's going to read it!" Erring announced cheerfully.

Dumbledore looked slightly surprised. "Minerva!"

"I have already punished those I knew to be involved with it, Albus."

Much to Snape's irritation, this seemed to satisfy Dumbledore and McGonagall began to read.

"_One esteemed Professor thought_

_With drink he could escape._

_Now he's a transgressor and _

_They call him Master _…"

There was dead silence for a moment. McGonagall's lips twitched. Then suddenly Erring shouted, "Oh! 'Snape!'"

Snape gritted his teeth. McGonagall straightened her glasses and continued.

"_Speaking ill is very wrong – _

_It's also highly risky._

_But what a sight he must have been,_

_Face-down in his whiskey_!

_I bet he scores his essays drunk – _

_(He's really got a pair.)_

_But if it gets us better marks,_

_Then I don't bloody care._

_It seems that awful, grouchy bat _

_Has got into a scrape. _

_If luck's with us he'll get the sack,_

_And goodbye Master Snape_!"

By this point, the room was tittering. Snape looked like a storm cloud. He began to gather up his things.

"That is the worst poetry I have ever heard," he sneered.

"Oh I don't know, I rather liked it!" said McGonagall, bursting into laughter, accompanied by most of the gathered instructors.

Snape stood up majestically, his robes flapping, every line of his face radiating ire. McGonagall was fast to notice.

"Oh come now, Severus! We all know how stupid children can be. None of us actually _believes _this rubbish, you know."

Snape, unfortunately, was not persuaded. In one smooth motion he crossed the room, snatched the offending paper from McGonagall, and tossed it into the fireplace. "I," he announced haughtily, "have classes to teach. As do you, Professor. Good day."

He swept past her and left.

"Not a very happy man, is he?" asked Erring, once the door had shut behind him.

Flitwick sighed.

* * *

The rest of Friday was absolute hell for Harry. He was twitching worse than ever, his legs felt like jelly, he was sweating profusely, and he was attempting to hide it from his best friends – people who knew him very well. Hermione had asked him twice already if he was "quite all right." He couldn't let her ask again. He had to put up a better front.

But it was difficult. Harry had an awful stomachache, the beginnings of a matching headache, a terrible woozy feeling whenever he stood up, and a pressing need to use the restroom after every meal. Worse, whenever he did his business, it burned so awfully that after the fifth time he almost cried out.

Almost.

He was not about to show any pain or weakness to anybody. To admit something was wrong was to admit he'd done something foolish and illegal. To admit he'd done something foolish and illegal would be to admit he had a problem he could see no other way to deal with. And to admit _that_ would be a terrible blow to his pride.

So he suffered in silence. He failed McGonagall's quiz, guzzled his pumpkin juice at lunch (anything to re-hydrate), spent Herbology completely out-of-it with one quivering hand on his distressed and distended tummy, and waited for the final carillon at half-past-three.

After another stop in the bathroom at four, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked white as a sheet, but he looked … white. The world, he noticed, was beginning to lighten ever so slightly. The color was gently seeping back into things. His round glasses, for instance, were a firm black, not the maybe-black of a few hours ago.

Of course, this was little comfort when he felt so tired and ill. He considered speaking to Madame Pomfrey, but quickly banished the thought. If she found out he was suffering the effects of withdrawl from Fizz (because Harry had finally figured out what this was), he would be in some _serious _trouble. There was nothing for it but to square his shoulders and shut up.

* * *

Midnight on Friday found Snape and Dumbledore deep in the bowels of Hogwarts investigating Cavern 32, fending off small insects and looking for Snape's colony of pipistrelles. As much as the students called Snape things like a "great bat," comments the professor stoutly ignored, he had always gotten on quite well with the flying creatures. It was a natural result of spending so much time in the dungeons. (The belfries of Hogwarts had been overtaken by the owls and so the bats had "gone underground," so to speak.) Snape had kept his colony here for safety and convenience.

Reaching them, however, was another matter. The going was slow. Dumbledore wasn't a fast walker and soon they were up to their calves in bat guano, anyway. Both men had swapped their usual sweeping robes for Muggle clothes. Everything Snape wore, from his turtle neck top to his flat-front trousers to his knee-high boots, was a functional black. Dumbledore, however, had selected a ghastly yellow polka-dot jumper, red rain boots, and plus-fours in a shocking shade of green.

Finally, however, they located the colony, all roosting together in a cozy corner of the cavern. Upon their arrival, the bats' began to chitter and screech. Snape knew it was because they probably recognized him (he'd been down here last month to check up on them). But the bats quickly turned annoyed and began to flap about. Snape figured it was the Headmaster's clothing choice. Hell, it annoyed _him_ from fifty yards.

"Well, here we are," Snape said.

"So it would seem," said Dumbledore. His eyes were watering a bit – the smell in here was overpowering.

He looked this way and that, shining his headlamp on the walls. (Each of the wizards had charmed a lumos flare to hover just above his eyes for hands-free navigation.) He and Snape both took care not to shine his light directly at the bats. It was bound to annoy them further, and they needed their cooperation.

"Again, Headmaster, I appreciate you coming," Snape said sincerely.

"No trouble, Severus," Dumbledore replied evenly as he forgot to look down and stepped heavily into a pile of moist, warm guano. "Let's catch some bats, shall we?"

Snape nodded. But as it turned out, "catching some bats" was quite a tall order. Even after his initial kindness to these animals and reading his bat book cover to cover, Snape had quite a job of communicating with them. He let out repeated high screeches, and while they were rather hilarious on some level, they were not really getting the bats' attention. In fact, he could tell that some of the pipistrelles were actively ignoring him.

"Impudent little beasts," he growled. "So rude! Hmm. Maybe if I try …" he screeched again.

This time, he got a response.

So, after an hour of standing in a dark cave and having a screeching conversation, Snape had a raw throat, but also something approaching an answer. He wearily turned to Dumbledore, who was leaning against the cavern wall and reading a book.

"News?" he asked, looking up.

"A bit," Snape wheezed. "It seems the two bats on duty Wednesday night are off hunting in another part of the cavern. I've asked one of these to seek them out."

At Snape's words, one lone pipistrelle flew away from the colony.

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. "We may get to the bottom of this, yet."

In retrospect, Snape figured, he could probably blame that last sentence of Dumbledore's for what happened next. He jinxed the whole thing!

First of all, it took nearly an hour for the two bats in question to return, following the scout bat. By then it was nearly two o'clock in the morning. After a long day of teaching and administrating, respectively, Snape was yawning and Dumbledore's eyes were at half-mast. Finally, the three bats flew back into the cavern.

Snape had the fortune to witness the return. He calmly pointed his wand at the three returning creatures, and said "_Cromo diversae!_"

The bats he pointed at immediately began to glow green. They stuck out like sore thumbs against the darkness of the cavern and the mass of the other bats. They also didn't seem to notice the spell cast on them, flapping around as usual and trying to find a spot to settle and hang upside-down. But the rest of the colony was alarmed at this strange magic. Something had happened to their compatriots, and the hook-nosed man with the wooden stick was responsible.

One bat, obviously a leader of the colony, let out a screech that sounded alarmingly like a bat war cry … and all hell broke loose.

Albus Dumbledore was quickly reduced to shivering heap of giggles as a colony of furious, tiny bats loudly pursued a rather frightened Severus Snape all over the cavern, until the Potions Master tripped over a rock and went face-first into an enormous pile of bat shit.

It was after three by the time the bats had calmed down, Snape had cleaned up, and Dumbledore finally managed to hit the appropriate bats with a sleeping charm. The little creatures were flapping about at the time. They fell asleep mid-flight and dropped out of the air like stones into Snape's outstretched hands.

Both men were tired from a long day. Dumbledore was in no shape to Legilimize a bat without hurting it. Snape was feeling most put-out at having his bats chase him around, and his cleaning charm hadn't been terribly effective, so he stank to high heaven. Dumbledore offered to do another, but Snape just glared at him sourly. The elder wizard took the blatant social cue and backed off.

Snape turned his gaze on the three little bats he held gently in his hands. The one on the left, an elderly bat, was sleeping quietly. The one on the right, a middle-aged bat, was twitching its nose. And the bat in the middle, quite young by the looks of its coloring, was snoring loudly with its mouth open and its tongue hanging out.

In some dim corner of his mind, Snape found the sight rather cute. Then he shook his head to clear it. These creatures were tools, a means to an end. He handed the bats to Dumbledore.

"I will take these bats with me to my study," Dumbledore said. "Tomorrow morning we can wake them up and I will Legilimize them. Be in my office at eleven a.m. Will you?"

Snape yawned. "Yes, sir. Come on, then. I need a shower."

"That you do, my boy," said Dumbledore, cradling the bats. "That you do."

Snape looked annoyed. They trudged off through the muck and made their way out of the cavern.

* * *

Saturday was not a good day. In fact, Harry thought, if Friday was bad, then this had to be ten times worse. With no classes to occupy him and lots of homework to do, time stretched before him in an endless wasteland of pain, work, and general misery. He decided to confine himself to his dorm room and study instead of practicing Quidditch with Ron and the rest of the team. He had a lot of work to do, and besides, he needed to be close to a bathroom. He only left the tower for meals. At breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he forced himself to drink all the pumpkin juice Hermione offered him. It seemed to get the worried expression off her face, if only for a little while.

But holding in the pain didn't make it stop. His stomachache from yesterday had become unbearable. His limbs, while they had stopped twitching quite so much, were aching fiercely, the pain radiating from somewhere deep inside his bones. He was dizzy all the time, and frankly glad that his feeble excuse of "homework, you know," had gotten Ron off his back about practicing. He didn't know _what_ he would do on a broom today.

"Probably kill myself," he mused darkly.

By late afternoon, he was stiff and sore and tired from focusing what little attention he could muster on his studies. Taking a break from studying Transfiguration, he glanced out his dormitory window at the blue sky. _Hang on …_

The sky was blue. Harry looked down at his hands. They were the same light peachy color they'd always been. His shirt was red, with black stripes. His trousers were gray. His socks were white.

The world, for whatever reason, had gone colors again, and for a moment Harry's mind filled up completely with this fact. He forgot all about the pain for a minute or two.

* * *

It came back with a vengeance after dinner. By evening Harry was barely able to stand, let alone make conversation, but he had to do both. It was a Hogsmeade weekend, and most of Gryffindor tower was heading out for the night. At eight o'clock, the common room was packed with departing students. The sixth and seventh-years looked slightly blasé about it, the fifth-years looked nervous, and the fourth and third-years were chattering excitedly. The second and first-years, already in bed, were absent from the crowd.

Harry looked around to see who was staying and who was leaving. It turned out nearly everyone from his year was going out. Seamus, Dean, and Neville were dressed nicely and preparing to escort a gussied-up Lavender, Parvati, and Ginny, respectively. Ron looked slightly displeased at the Neville-Ginny thing and was eyeing the pudgy, sweet-tempered boy with his patented "If you hurt my baby sister I'll do something unspeakable to you" glare. Neville gulped.

Ron and Hermione were chatting with the others but dressed in their pajamas. They clearly intended to stay in. Harry was still in his day clothes, minus his shoes, but he had no plans to go out tonight, certainly not feeling as ill as he did.

"Coming, Harry?" Seamus asked.

"No, no, I don't think so," said Harry. "Work, you know."

Seamus waved him off in a friendly manner, took Parvati's arm, and guided her out of the portrait hole. Everyone left, and Harry did his best to smile and wave as they went, although his hand was not steady and his smile came out as more of a grimace.

Finally the last students disappeared through the portrait hole and it closed, revealing that Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed to be the only upper classmen left in Gryffindor Tower.

"I do believe this qualifies us as losers," Ron said casually, shuffling over to the roaring fire and sitting down on the fuzzy rug before it. "Chess?" he asked, digging his set out from under one of the couches.

"Why aren't you two going?" Harry asked quietly, sitting down gingerly across from Ron.

Hermione had curled up on the couch and begun to read. She peeked at him over the top of her book.

"We have more important things to do," she said in an even tone.

Harry had no idea what she meant by that. Rather than dwell on it, he faced Ron and prepared to lose spectacularly, as usual; anything to take his mind off his aching belly and his throbbing everything else. After ten minutes of chess, it became apparent that this wasn't working.

Perhaps a shower would help. Harry let Ron kick his arse all over the chessboard, stood up carefully, and began to toddle up the stairs.

"Harry, where are you going?" asked Ron.

"Grab a shower," Harry said tightly, unconsciously clutching his stomach with one hand. "See you in a bit."

* * *

Harry walked up the stairs with agonizing slowness and into the dormitory. As soon as Hermione heard the click of the door closing, she closed her book. Ron was staring at her.

"You gave him the last of the potion at dinner, right?" he said.

"Yes."

"Well, what happens now?"

"I told you," Hermione replied. "An explosion of some sort. The book wasn't clear on what's supposed to happen, though. We should be ready for anything. In fact," she continued, putting down her book, "I'll get some supplies ready. Something tells me this won't be pleasant."

She went up to her room, leaving Ron alone in front of the fire.

* * *

Harry was rinsing off the soap when it hit him. The wave of nausea was so powerful it practically knocked him over. Nude, he staggered out of the still running shower, fell to his knees in front of the toilet, and began to heave. After twenty agonizing minutes that stretched into infinity, his stomach was finally empty. He felt his knees pressing uncomfortably on the cold marble floor. His arms were limp around the toilet bowl. He breathed hard and swiped his sweaty forehead against his arm to dry it.

For a brief second, he thought it was over.

And then, horrors, he felt something terribly painful hurtling through him, trying to get out the _other_ end.

The only reasonable thing Harry could do was switch positions, which he did. He managed to seat himself on the commode just in time. But after two days of an upset stomach and all the vomiting just now, this was too much to handle. His abdominal muscles felt like they were splitting apart. His lungs were on fire. Whatever was worming its way out of him was yanking on every nerve. The pain was so awful that he bit the inside of his cheek and soon had blood running out from between his clenched teeth and down his chin. Sweat began to mingle with the lingering drops of water on him.

He didn't make a sound.

And finally, an excruciating half hour later, it was over. Harry was done in. Weak, exhausted, unsteady, dehydrated, and still in terrible pain, he sagged slightly to the left. Gravity did the rest. He fell off the toilet, hit the floor, and landed limply on his side. The hard slap of flesh against marble made a sickening _thwack_.

And that was when he realized that no one was coming for him. He licked his suddenly chapped lips as the world slid in and out of focus, spat and dribbled blood, and perversely pondered what it would be like to die like this, naked and cold on the bathroom floor, within shouting distance of his friends. What would the Prophet's headline read? Probably "Boy-Who-Lived Lives No More."

Or perhaps, he thought morosely, "Teenager Blows Everything He Ever Ate Out His Arse, Dies As Result."

God, his arse hurt. God, he thought, _everything_ hurt – his limbs, his sphincters, his muscles, his bones, his brain, his very soul.

Everything hurt so terribly.

That was his last coherent thought before his arms and legs began to flop wildly, completely out of his control. His breath turned shallow and rapid as muscles he didn't even know he had constricted in his chest. His heart was going a mile-a-minute. Even his neck got in on the action, arching up in repeated spasms so bad that his head snapped back and repeatedly connected with the base of the toilet behind him. There was an odd rushing in his ears …

And it went off like a shot. All the things he'd tried to contain for the past three weeks came pouring out. Everything – pain, joy, breath – was flung out of him in a mighty whoosh of air and wild magic, accompanied by a loud, terrified noise that emanated from his burning chest and thrashed vocal chords.

Harry hadn't screamed like that since June.

He twitched one more time, curling into a gentle fetal position. Then his limbs went limp and slapped onto the tile. The moonlight pouring in through the charmed window striped a bar of light across his pale form. He lay there, deathly still, on the cold marble floor.

TBC


	14. XIII Cry

**Reviewers!** **Infall**, thanks as always for your support. Here's more! **Shiba** – Thanks for the review! I do apologize if the last chapter felt odd. I'm guessing it was the juxtaposition of the humorous (Snape falling face-first into batshit) with the serious (Harry half-dead on the bathroom floor) that did it. Anyway, glad you enjoyed the Snape stuff. That poem was fun to write. And while I had no intention of channeling that South Park moment with Harry at all, I'm glad that while it reminded you of it, you didn't laugh. Yay! Mark hit! **Angel**, thanks again for your song (and support), and for catching stuff and getting me to fix it. Hooray! The name Erring, incidentally, is indicative of this particular professor's general intelligence and behavior in social situations – he does nothing but make mistakes. Glad you enjoyed the staff room and cavern bits. I liked writing both. **Cheshire** – here it is! Enjoy. **Stahchild**: Hey, haven't seen you in a while! Glad you came back. The issue you brought up will certainly be dealt with. Good luck with all those author alerts. **Sailor X1**: Hey, thanks for coming around! I really appreciate it. Thanks also for the praise. strokes happily puffed ego, which purrs Here's more. **Kiwi, **:D glad you're enjoying. Yeah, there was a lot of Harry last time, but then again, last time was all about Harry's problem. Ron and Hermione take over in this chapter. As to your question: Hermione slipped the potion into Harry's drink by using Ron as a diversion (Harry talks to him, turns his head away from his juice, and the rest is history). And Harry never got wise to it because a) the potion is odorless, colorless, and tasteless, and b) he was too sick to think straight. Should that be in there somewhere, or is it clear enough without it? O de-facto beta, I beg thee. Give me a sign! Cheers. **Freja**! Glad you're back, dear. Good luck with those test results and thanks, as always, for the support.

* * *

"**_Things fall apart, the center cannot hold…" _The Second Coming_, William Butler Yeats_**

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Cry**

"Hermione, it's been almost an hour."

Ron hadn't seen Harry since the other boy had gone off for a wash. Playing chess with himself had grown old … so old in fact that he was actually studying to keep his head. He marked his place in his Transfiguration book and glanced up at Hermione.

"I know," she said, looking a bit strained, and put her Charms book down with a sigh. "I'm tired of waiting for this explosion, but the article said it wasn't safe to approach until after it happened! What should we do?"

"Tch. 'The article said, the article said,'" Ron parroted snidely, standing up. "I'm tired of hearing about what the article says! _My gut _says let's go up and get Harry."

He tossed his text on the couch and left the common room.

"Ron, wait!" said Hermione, abandoning her book and grabbing the extra blanket she'd brought down from her room.

They climbed the stairs to the sixth-year dormitory, Ron leading by a considerable margin and Hermione muttering under her breath.

"Harry?" Ron called, banging open the door.

There was no response. Hermione had arrived by then, and she and Ron just stared at each other. Together, they walked through the silent dormitory, over to the left bathroom.

"Harry!" Ron yelled, knocking on the door. "Hey Harry, what are you doing, pickling yourself? Open up!"

"Harry, are you in there?" Hermione called, a bit desperately.

Silence. They put their ears to the door.

"I don't hear anything," said Ron after a bit.

"I do," Hermione said grimly, her face quickly losing color. "Running water."

Running water… No reply…

Ron let off a hefty curse and grabbed his wand from his bed. "Right, stand back, Hermione! _Alo –_"

"AAAAAAH!"

The scream from behind the door stopped Ron mid-word.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted.

There was no sound after that, but a powerful shockwave of magic, clearly coming from the bathroom, didn't need a "bang" to do its work. Ron and Hermione screamed as they were lifted up and flung back in either direction. Ron went flying into one of his bedposts, cracked his head on it, and slid down to the floor with a moan. Hermione was not lifted nearly as much; she smashed her back painfully into Neville's trunk at the end of his bed. But the blast picked her up just enough to summersault her over it, and she ended up in a heap on Neville's duvet, blinking at his canopy with tearing eyes and groaning.

"Hermione?" Ron panted.

"Yes?" she called back.

"I think … I think that was your explosion."

"Brilliant deduction, Ron," she scathed through gritted teeth, and found her wand. "_Alohomora!_"

The door of the bathroom swung open. Swearing and muttering, both of them picked themselves up and headed towards it.

* * *

At 9:30 in the evening, Snape was waiting in Dumbledore's office. The headmaster had been about to Legilimize the bats that morning when he was called away on Order business – something about Nymphadora Tonks and Remus Lupin coming back from a mission in terrible shape. Snape hated Lupin on principle, but knowing Tonks, she and her inherent clumsiness were undoubtedly to blame for whatever mishap had occurred. 

In any case, Dumbledore had finally returned from sorting everything out. And Snape, rather than complain of the delay, had used the intervening time to his advantage by brewing up several essential potions and dealing with the actions of some of his students. Somehow, that wretched poem had escaped from Minerva's pocket and the Gryffindors had been adding to it. The Slytherins, on the pretext of being "so very angry about the whole thing," had resorted to hexing the hell out of them.

Normally, Snape would have feigned ignorance and let this continue, but he had the misfortune to witness Draco Malfoy fire a hex at Colin Creevey which caused the other boy to spout blood from his nose, mouth, and both ears. He dealt with it easily. Creevey was dispatched to the hospital wing, Malfoy was given five points for quality spellwork, and Theodore Nott got detention for it, although he was nowhere near the scene.

He was just pondering what sort of detention to give Nott when Dumbledore stepped into his office.

"Ah, Severus," he said wearily. It had clearly been a long day, and he didn't look to be in the mood for small talk, which was perfect because small talk was another thing Snape hated on principle. "Shall we get down to business?"

"Yes, let's."

Dumbledore nodded as he sat down at his desk. "Very well. _Accio_ Barbara!"

One of the bats went zooming into Dumbledore's outstretched hand with a small squeak. Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Barbara?"

"That is her name," Dumbledore replied evenly. "I did a quick scan for it this morning before I left."

Snape wanted to protest at Dumbledore's having done anything without him, but he kept silent. The old man was peering intently at the little bat in his hands. It was a middle-aged bat, with tall ears, a squashed face, and lacy wings, all black, which contrasted nicely with her brown-grey fur. Indeed, "Barbara" looked just like any other Pipistrelle. She chittered at him and then went quiet.

After a moment, Dumbledore released her and she flapped off to roost on a nearby chandelier, her flight path a bit wonky.

"She was the scout that brought back the other two in the cavern," Dumbledore said. "She didn't observe anything."

Snape leaned back in his chair, only to raise an eyebrow again as Dumbledore said, "_Accio _Bruce!"

He repeated the same process with this other bat, obviously older than Barbara, (its fur had gone more grey than brown) and then let it go, too. He shook his head as it flapped off, struggling to maintain course.

"Bruce was watching that evening, but he appears to have been on a moth break during your incident," Dumbledore explained. "He didn't see anything. _Accio_ Terrence!"

"Terrence" was a juvenile bat, a tiny little thing, and he went sailing into Dumbledore's hands with a merry, "Chirry-chirry-chee!" Evidently he thought this whole flying-without-wings business was great fun. Snape inexplicably felt the corners of his lips pricking up.

Dumbledore focused his attention on the young bat and looked into its shiny black eyes. The bat chittered at him once, confused, and then stared back in silence. Dumbledore focused his attention on the bat for what seemed like an interminably long time to Snape. Then suddenly he rose, released the bat (which flapped off just as clumsily as the other two), and strode to a nearby cabinet.

"Sir?" Snape asked, wondering what was going on.

Dumbledore ignored him. He remained with his back to Snape as he took out his own Pensieve, touched the tip of his wand to his forehead and pulled out a big fat strand of thought, which he plopped heavily into the stone bowl of swirling mist. In a flourish of robes, he walked back over to his desk and set the bowl between them, only to seat himself regally, cross his arms, and turn something like a death glare on Snape. He appeared to be highly displeased about something. Snape could hardly imagine what.

"I collected this fascinating memory from young Terrence," Dumbledore announced, his words clipped and angry. "Look in the Pensieve, and then explain yourself."

Snape blanched.

* * *

Ron and Hermione staggered into the bathroom, wincing from their rough landings. Hermione had an extra blanket over one shoulder. They both looked around, and, as one, took in the details. Round glasses on the sink. Towel on the floor. Running shower. Full toilet. The room was poorly lit, the smell overpowering. 

And the cause of all this was crumpled into a nude, unmoving ball on the floor.

"Harry!" Hermione screamed, shoving Ron back and running over.

She skidded to a halt next to Harry and dropped to her knees beside him to take his pulse. Behind her, Ron took in a breath and held it as she felt Harry's neck with her fingertips. Thump, thump, thump. It was there, slow and steady, but rather weak. Harry took a visible breath. So did Hermione. She turned to Ron.

"He's alive."

Ron just nodded. He stood frozen in the doorway, looking red as a tomato, evidently embarrassed at seeing his best friend without any clothes on. Then he quickly began taking care of the bathroom fixtures and cleaning up, turned completely away from Harry and Hermione.

Hermione just let him go about his business. Harry needed her attention now. Her skinny, gangly friend looked even skinnier and ganglier naked, and goosebumps were rising all over him. It was freezing in here. She performed a quick cleaning charm on Harry and started wrapping him up in the blanket she brought; he was limp and unhelpful.

She turned Harry on his back, gently uncurling his limbs. Unfortunately, that revealed _everything_ before she could cover him up – or look away. She felt her face heat, but at least Ron hadn't seen. He was now swearing at the shower, trying to turn off the water; the lion-headed tap didn't seem to be in the mood to follow instructions.

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione sat on the floor and pulled Harry close to her. She was at once hit with the warm, nice smell of clean teenage wizard, unfortunately mixed with the faint odor of shit and vomit. It made her wrinkle her nose.

"Ron, cast an air freshening charm, would you?" she asked.

"Er … yeah. Right away," said Ron.

A swish and flick and muttered incantation later, and the whole bathroom smelled powerfully of daisies. Ron had just convinced the tap to shut off when Harry moaned. The skin was crinkling around his closed eyes. Hermione looked down in surprise. Ron spun around.

"Harry?" Hermione asked softly.

Ron squatted nearby. Harry moaned again and blearily cracked open his eyelids.

* * *

There were voices above him, but they were muffled, like someone was talking through a wall. The touch, though, was what did it. Someone was untangling his frozen limbs, wrapping him up in a warm blanket and holding him close. Harry had no recollection of ever being held like this by anyone, not even Mrs. Weasley. 

It felt good. Really good.

It was Hermione who was holding him. He knew it by her warm breath in his ear, her soft voice calling his name. Somehow, her presence didn't surprise him. And that was when Harry finally remembered, all in a rush, the difference between good and bad, joy and pain. It was a physical thing, an intense crush of forgotten knowledge that played across the muscles in his torso and made them dance. His head hurt. His ears ached. Anger, happiness, love, surprise, desperation … something was pressing all his emotional buttons at once. It was confusing at first. And then suddenly it was very, very funny.

* * *

"Harry, are you all right?" Hermione asked worriedly, peering into her friend's bloodshot green eyes. 

Stupid question, Hermione realized. She figured that merited a snort from Harry, so she wasn't that alarmed when he snorted, and then began to snicker. The only problem was that he couldn't seem to stop. Harry laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more. Ron looked visibly alarmed at this; he stood suddenly and backed off. Hermione had her arms full, so that option was out. She stayed perfectly still and held on, rubbing lazy circles on one of Harry's shoulders.

Harry laughed until he coughed, until he began to tear up, until he was laughing so hard he was crying, until his laughter dried up and nothing was left but the tears rolling silently down his face. His expression had turned bleak, his normally bright eyes dark with horror and guilt. It was in that instant that Hermione figured out what was happening: the final release of the Fizz was causing both of Harry's emotional poles to swing back into focus – first the positive, and now the negative. The terrible memories and painful emotions of June, buried or ignored, had come flooding back.

And Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the strongest person Hermione knew, turned his head, buried his face in her shirt, and wept helplessly.

Hermione tried to soothe him, but her shushing sound escaped through clenched teeth. Her own eyes were stinging. She never knew another person's pain could make her own heart twist so hard. She bent her head over Harry, her bushy brown hair shielding his head from view, and held her best friend close as he fell apart.

"Sirius. Sirius!"

He grabbed a fistful of her collar, and she felt rather than heard his moan, his grief so profound that it rattled her ribcage. She kept her head down, resting her cheek on the back of Harry's neck. And she didn't dare look at Ron as she began to rock Harry back and forth, almost imperceptibly. To his credit, Harry refrained from wailing outright, but he kept mumbling Sirius's name over and over, his face in her shirt, which was getting damp.

He didn't calm down for what seemed like a very long time. But finally the sobs had dwindled, and seemed safe to move a little. Hermione peeked out from between her split ends. Ron was crouched down and lurking about a foot away, wide-eyed and confused, like a frightened forest creature near a campfire. Hermione took pity on him.

"Go turn down Harry's bed, would you, Ron?" she said quietly. "Wait outside until I call for you."

Ron nodded dumbly and crept out of the bathroom, leaving Hermione alone with Harry. She sighed and continued to wait. Harry chuffed against her. He wasn't gripping her exactly, but his right arm was flung up and over her shoulder. He'd shifted it at some point. It suddenly dawned on her that Harry was getting rather heavy. At least he wasn't crying so hard anymore. He was only hiccoughing into her shirt at intervals now.

"It's all right, Harry," Hermione mumbled to the side of his head, pulling some of the blanket over his legs and feet. "You're safe. Just lie back and let go. Come on, fall on me. It's all right."

"It hurts," said Harry, the words strained and quiet and muffled in Hermione's shirt. "It hurts so much."

The pat answer to this was "I know," but Hermione, in that moment, felt she did not know, and prayed she never would. She said nothing. Two tears plopped down her cheeks and splashed onto Harry's tangled, sweaty mop of black hair. Fortunately, she could feel him starting to relax in her arms – probably more out of exhaustion than anything else, but it was something.

The front of her shirt was nearly soaked. Her arms were aching from Harry's weight. Then again, two-ton limbs were easier to handle than a bereft wizard in the throes of a nervous breakdown. She ignored the wetness and welcomed the pain. His forehead was knocking against her collarbone now, hot breath from his nose shooting pleasantly down the front of her nightshirt. He took gulps of air and fidgeted a little, too tired and ill to squirm effectively. Hermione adjusted her own position slightly.

It seemed that things had finally calmed down.

"Ron?" she called out.

Footsteps, and suddenly Ron was in the doorway. "Bed's ready," he announced. "Shall I carry him?"

Hermione nodded. Harry didn't even offer a token protest as Ron lifted him out of Hermione's arms and carried him out of the bathroom. Hermione picked herself up off the floor and followed, snagging Harry's glasses along the way and furiously wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

* * *

Snape pulled out of Dumbledore's Pensieve with dread. He'd heard rather than seen the whole conversation, because young Terrence had closed his eyes against the glare when the lights went on, but the exchange itself… Well, it confirmed what he'd suspected all along – Potter was acting strangely (due to Vivus Vitae), Granger had Obliviated him and Weasley had brained him. But now he had the whole story. Those little brats had taken egregious measures against him with terrifyingly good reason. 

The facts were undeniable. In a fit of rage, he had Legilimized a defenseless student for information. And worse, he charged into his classroom the following morning, remembering nothing, and demanding that very thing all over again! Snape hung his head. Oh, if only he had let this matter drop! Let Albus think he had a drinking problem … let the whole damned school agree! He would rather check into the nearest clinic for a week than allow the headmaster think him a danger to the students here. If he got the sack, if he wasn't here, he couldn't even _think_ about the fate of the students of Slytherin House.

But it was too late to speak in "if onlys." He'd mentioned and caught the stupid bats, utterly convinced they would prove his innocence, and here he was, being held up as the guilty party. He snorted at the irony. Well, he'd gotten himself into this mess. It was up to him to get himself out.

"Well?" Dumbledore demanded, leaning over his desk at Snape.

Snape settled against his chair, steepled his fingers in front of him, and surveyed the headmaster. He needed to tread carefully and stay calm.

"As you saw, I was attacked," he began.

"Yes you were," Dumbledore interrupted sarcastically, which rather alarmed Snape. "It gives a stupid old man cause to wonder _why_. Honestly, Severus, what the hell were you thinking? Legilimizing Miss Granger? For shame!"

"It was late," Snape said smoothly, and pushed through his story before Dumbledore could cut in again. "I was discombobulated and exhausted, I caught the girl attempting to raid my stores, and instead of explaining herself and accepting her punishment for sneaking, she refused to tell me anything. I snapped. The end."

"NO," said Dumbledore, with considerable force, his blue eyes blazing with an angry light. "Not 'the end.' We have had words before about your disciplinary methods, Severus, but this is the limit! Miss Granger had a right to privacy, despite the late hour and your _mood_."

That last comment made his blood boil.

"Right to privacy?" Snape exploded. "She gave up that right when she decided to break and enter! Or do you plan to overlook the fact that she is a thief and Ronald Weasley, her cohort, is nothing better than a common thug? You heard them talking afterwards, Albus. Your precious golden Gryffindor _prefects_ didn't give a damn that they'd just broken rules and attacked me. They were more concerned about getting away with it!"

Snape didn't remember standing up in the middle of this, but was on his feet shouting now, as was Dumbledore, repeatedly attempting to cut across him. So much for calm.

"Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley will be punished," Dumbledore said sternly, finally getting a word in. "But in retrospect, I can understand their actions. They were trying to help their friend."

"Ah yes, their _friend_," Snape spat, a tic starting in a vein on his neck, "The great and powerful Harry Potter, who seems to be consistently at the center of trouble around here. The _drug addict_," he added, over Dumbledore's ruffled snort. "I stand by what I said on Wednesday night. That twit can't go around taking illegal draughts, and he should be expelled for it!"

"Mr. Potter will be dealt with!" Dumbledore announced.

"Oh, really? When?" Snape shot back.

"Immediately," Dumbledore volleyed. "And once I'm through with the Gryffindors, I will figure out a suitable action to take with _you_. Come, we'll go to Gryffindor Tower. If Harry has been taking Vivus Vitae, there is bound to be some evidence of it."

With that, Dumbledore swept from his office, Snape in tow. They were off to catch some rogue students. But while snaring those brats would be quite satisfying, Snape nibbled nervously at his bottom lip. Dumbledore was going to take action with _him_? Oh, that couldn't be good.

* * *

Hermione came out of the bathroom just as Ron was laying Harry down on the bed, wrapped loosely in the blanket. She noted with grim approval that he'd dimmed most of the lights in the room, turned the bed down, and gotten out a pair of Harry's underpants and pajamas. Then Ron caught her eyes, his cheeks flushing. He was clearly dead set against seeing a Potter centerfold if he could help it. 

"Erm, Hermione, could you …?" He motioned at the heap of clothes next to Harry and trailed off, turning quite red.

Hermione nodded, setting Harry's glasses on his night table and performing a drying charm on her shirt. "Sure."

Ron turned around in relief and left her to her work, which she completed quickly. Harry was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open, and by the time he had the strength to mumble "Hey!" at the intrusion, Hermione was fastening the last button of his pajama shirt and re-wrapping him in the spare blanket.

"You can look now, Ron," Hermione said, and Ron came over to join her.

In spite of their efforts, Harry was still a sad sight. His face was pale and drawn and there were bags under his eyes. Hermione began to pull the covers up to his chin.

"Bassard," Harry slurred suddenly in Ron's direction.

Ron raised an eyebrow and looked at Hermione in befuddlement.

"Don't call Ron names, Harry, it's not nice," she chided gently as she tucked him in, positive it was the exhaustion and dehydration talking.

"_Ron's_ not nice," Harry complained, this time with a touch more clarity. "Idiot blew my trousers off. Made them disappear."

At any other time, a comment like that would have made Ron smile. Now, though, it was cause for worry. He leaned over and whispered in Hermione's ear.

"'Mione, when are we going to tell him?"

"In the morning," she hissed back.

"But …"

"In the _morning_."

They broke apart and saw an annoyed, sleepy Harry, who seemed to have missed their exchange. He was exhibiting a bizarre combination of facial expressions: knitted eyebrows, half-closed eyes, and a frown. Hermione continued fixing his blankets and nestling him securely in bed.

"Don't worry about it, Harry," she said. "Ron will figure out a way to find them." (Ron rolled his eyes at this.) "In the meantime, you need to drink some water. You lost a lot of liquid back there in the bathroom."

This seemed to slightly appease Harry, who managed to un-stick his face and raised a wary eyebrow at her for a long moment. "All right," he said grudgingly.

"All right indeed," Hermione replied, giving Ron a significant look.

Ron went to the window and poured Harry a glass of cool water from the jug. Hermione got her hand underneath Harry's neck and lifted his head slightly so he could drink, and Ron held the glass to his lips. He managed a few gulps, and then Ron reached across him and set the glass on his night stand next to his glasses.

Hermione smiled down at him. It was imperative that he get some real rest, and soon. The worst of the withdrawl was over. Harry needed to recuperate from his two days of hell so he could be back in class on Monday, and he had what he needed: warmth, friends, and quiet. Ron seemed to sense that his job was done for the moment. He walked around Harry's bed and stretched out on his own.

Hermione, however, decided to join Harry on his bed. She sat down on his left, cross-legged, and blocked most, but not all, of the moonlight coming in through the window. Harry blinked up at her.

"Stupid Ron," he mumbled.

"Harry, you'll get them back, I promise," she said.

"Those were nice trousers," he said blankly, and it was very clear that something was welling up inside him and it had nothing to do with losing his clothes. "I liked them."

"I know," she whispered, and ran a hand through his messy hair.

A change had come over Harry. He was looking at Hermione and not quite seeing her, almost as though he were staring through her head. She comforted herself by declaring silently that the potion was out of him, and the withdrawl was nearly over. The moonlight caught Harry's dull eyes and gave them an otherworldly glow.

"Everything's a mess," he said.

Hermione said nothing. She looked down at his duvet and waited, because she knew what Harry was talking about. He wasn't talking about the mess he'd made in the loo, or the mess Ron had made of his trousers. He was talking about the mess that was his life. And she recognized that quiver in his voice; she'd only heard it once before. It was 4th year, in the hospital wing, when he blamed himself for Cedric Diggory's death and buried his face in Mrs. Weasley's blouse. The memory made her chest constrict.

Harry, for his part, just stared at Hermione, exhausted, unhappy, and overwhelmed. And the thing he'd guarded himself from saying since June finally emerged in a coherent sentence.

"Sirius is gone," he said. His voice was ragged and breathy, more air than sound.

"Yes he is," Hermione said. "And it was a huge loss for us all."

Harry was hardly listening to her. He shook his head, licked his lips, willed his vocal chords to work for him, and tried mold what he felt into words.

"Why does everyone … have to leave me?" he asked.

The silence was deafening.

Harry blinked once and a tear got loose. Hermione watched it fall down his cheek and drip onto the pillow; she was completely at sea. A look at Ron, who was looking back at her in bewilderment, told her she was not alone in her helplessness. She put a hand on Harry's forehead and began to rub a thumb over his scar.

"Oh, Harry," she said.

They stayed like that for a very long time. Every once in a while Harry would ask quiet questions that he knew had no answer, and occasionally some tears would fall, but Ron and Hermione didn't say a word. Apparently, though, this was just the ticket, because it seemed Harry had finally realized what they'd hoped he would: that nothing he wondered, nothing he did, would ever leave this room.

A few minutes later, he had stopped. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Hermione had lain down on her side next to him, her thumb still on his forehead, the rest of her hand now tangled in his unruly hair. Her other arm was draped across his belly.

"You know all those questions you asked were rubbish, don't you? Because I can think of two people who would never leave you," she said.

Harry sniffed once. "Pardon?"

"Ron and I love you," she said simply. "And we aren't going anywhere. Either we all make it through this war or we go down together, but come what may, we're not leaving you, Harry."

* * *

Harry stared at Hermione for a moment. Even scrubbed as raw on the inside as he was, he realized that she was telling the truth. He could see it in her eyes. It terrified him that she was so convinced everything would turn out all right, and he felt even worse for not telling her about the prophecy, although the day was fast approaching when he could no longer avoid the conversation. 

"She's right, mate," he heard, from far away. It was Ron. "We're sticking to you like glue. Just close your eyes, now, there's a lad. We'll see you in the morning."

"And if you wake before then, we'll be here," Hermione finished. "Go to sleep, Harry. Everything will be all right."

The quiet voices of his friends, the warm blankets, the cool water, and the rhythmic movement of Hermione's thumb on his forehead had all worked their own secret magic. Harry did as he was asked.

* * *

Harry had been breathing evenly for several minutes before Hermione plucked up the nerve to gently extricate her hand from his tangled mop. She did so, got off his bed, and looked up at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 10. Stretching and yawning, she wandered over to Ron's bed, taking care not to step on the squeaky spots on the floor. 

Ron was lounging on a pillow and reading a Quidditch magazine. He scooted over so she could read over his shoulder by the light of his candle. The light was far enough away from Harry that it wouldn't bother him, and so the two of them sat there in companionable silence, prepared to stand guard until morning. The sixth-years were allowed a midnight curfew on Hogsmeade visits. They really didn't expect any disturbances in the dorm until the bells tolled twelve …

So when Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore burst in at a quarter after ten, it was a bit of a shock.

TBC

* * *

Chapter 14 will be here next Tuesday! Stay tuned!

:o)


	15. XIV Explanations

**Reviewers**! **Angel**, don't worry, everybody will get their just desserts. The you-know-what is about to hit the fan, but it ain't over till the bearded man speaks. You know, I always thought that "familiar" was just some odd term for a pet, but it turns out that it's a witch or wizard's spirit guide in the form of an animal … which is pretty neat. I do not think Snape is of the "batty" persuasion, although _I_ wouldn't mind keeping Terry. LOL **Sailor**, thanks as always for the rockin' support. I'm happy you're enjoying and that you liked that major scene in the last bit! It was hard to write. **Freja**: no, Dumbledore did not tamper with the bats, if that's what you mean. Thanks for reviewing. And **Kiwi**: I added one sentence in Chapter 12 that hopefully will make the distraction thing clearer. Let me know if it worked. And the fic hasn't come down with "Mione"-itis. Good. By the way, I'm blown away by the praise. I have some non-fanfic in the works, but none of it is published. :D You liked the itty-bitty Harry story? Hooray! I had fun writing it. Glad you enjoyed.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Explanations**

Ron blew out his candle, and Hermione made to bolt, but it was too late. The headmaster and their least favorite professor were already inside the dormitory. They were trapped.

"Stay where you are," Dumbledore said firmly, just as Snape pointed his wand ahead of him and commanded, "_Accio_ Billywig!"

Nothing happened.

"_Accio_ Firewhiskey!" Snape said again. "_Accio_ Opal Sugar!"

Again, nothing. Hermione's summoning charms had been airtight then, Ron thought. Snape looked very cross. Unfortunately, his anger was matched by his persistence and after a bit of menacing them and glaring around, he prowled into the bathroom. But thanks to Ron's earlier efforts, it was spotless.

"DAMN IT!" Snape shouted, stomping out to Dumbledore. "It's clean, completely clean!"

Ron fought down a smile. It seemed that the Potions Master, normally so on top of everything, was about two steps behind everybody else. Good. Serve the bastard right. Snape was snarling in frustration – perhaps he'd come in here hoping to pin something on Harry. And Ron stiffened. A terrible bubbly feeling began to rise in his stomach.

Snape _was_ hoping to pin something on Harry.

He was looking for Fizz ingredients! Ron's stomach did another flip-flop. He'd kept his own counsel about this, and he knew Hermione would rather die than tell. So how did the greasy git figure it out?

Snape broke Ron's concentration with a disgusted snort and wandered over to the beds. Dumbledore mumbled a spell and the room brightened just a little. Ron tossed his Quidditch book aside. Hermione shifted nervously next to him. Dumbledore ignored them both and wandered over to Harry's bed. How Harry had slept through Snape's ruckus Ron didn't know, but his friend was still out cold. The headmaster observed the steady rise and fall of Harry's chest for a moment.

"Miss Granger?" he asked mildly, turning around. "What are you doing in here?"

"Hermione came into help Harry," Ron blurted out.

"Yes, I did," Hermione continued, and Ron watched nervously as she smoothly changed his truth into a convincing lie. "Harry ate something that didn't agree with him. Ron and I were planning on having a night in, and Ron went to get something from his room when he heard Harry retching. Poor thing," she murmured sadly, looking over at Harry. "Whatever it was knocked him for a loop. Anyway, he needs his rest, and I was just leaving. Is there some reason _he's_ here?" she finished, nodding at Snape.

Snape curled a lip in disdain. Dumbledore, for his part, looked long and hard at Hermione … and smiled.

Ron managed to breathe again. Hermione's antennae must have gone up at Snape's antics, too, and she had quite possibly just bluffed them out of a terrible situation. He'd have to remember to thank her later.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, Professor Snape, come with me. It's obvious that Mr. Potter needs his rest," Dumbledore said. He left the dormitory with two wizards and a witch in tow.

* * *

Dumbledore led them all down to the common area, and they took seats on the couches. He regarded Hermione Granger again. Not for nothing was this young woman a candidate for Head Girl next year. She was brave, extraordinarily devoted to her friends, and far too clever by half. Lying, however, was not one of her strengths. He had to stop her before she got herself in too deep.

"Professor Snape is here, Miss Granger," Dumbledore began, "Because we have solid, incontrovertible evidence that Mr. Potter took a highly illegal and dangerous potion, and that you two not only covered for him, but attacked Professor Snape to get your hands on potions ingredients, presumably to help your friend."

Granger did a good job of looking shocked, Dumbledore thought, but there were cracks in her horrified veneer.

"My God," she said. "It's not enough that man had to come charging into Potions like a lunatic and demand my head on a plate? With all due respect, Headmaster, he's lying! That's the most outrageous accusation I've ever heard!"

Snape was on his feet before Dumbledore could stop him. "Knurfle Paste," he fumed. "Carrow Lily Root. Kelpie Scales. You mentioned all these ingredients by name after you left me for dead! I saw it! Professor Dumbledore wanted us to get up to your wretched tower immediately, but I insisted on checking my stores before we came. The levels in those vials were _low_!"

Dumbledore sighed. "Profesor, stop. Miss Granger, it is not an accusation. It is the truth. You Obliviated Professor Snape."

Granger had gone very white in the face of Snape's diatribe, but at least she'd had enough sense to stop protesting.

"And believe me, I understand why," Dumbledore went on. "He is not very friendly under the _best _of circumstances … I can't even _imagine_ how grumpy he must have been on Wednesday night. And his attack on you is inexcusable. He will be dealt with."

Snape growled. And before Granger could stop herself, she said …

"Good."

Weasley gasped.

"Good?" Dumbledore asked. "So you want him punished? You admit he attacked you? You admit what you did _in return_?"

That last question had come out rather piercing. He didn't think Granger's face could have been more pale and frightened. And finally, her bravado fell to pieces. She looked down at the carpet and nodded slowly.

"Hermione, no!" Weasley protested. "Professor, _I_ attacked Snape! It was all me!" he said desperately. "I hit him with a shovel! She didn't do anything!"

"You are a more pitiful liar than you are a potion maker, Weasley, and that's saying something," Snape sneered.

"Professor, be quiet or I will ask you to leave. Mr. Weasley, are you protecting Miss Granger or admitting your own guilt?"

"Admi–? … The first one!" the boy yelled. "I want to see this 'incontrovertible' proof of yours. Hermione here might feel pressured to confess just because you said she did something and Snape pulled some random ingredients out of his arse, but I won't!"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Language, Mr. Weasley, and I'll have you know that Professor Snape guards his room with security recorders. One of these picked up the events of Wednesday night. Your actions and your conversation with Hermione afterward are quite clear."

Weasley looked outraged. "This is insane! You've got nothing on either of us, and you also have nothing on Harry. There's no proof that he was taking Fizz! None at all! His room is clean, you saw that yourself!"

There was a sudden silence, and Granger was now staring at Weasley with intent to throttle. It rather amused Dumbledore.

"I beg your pardon?" he said mildly. "I never said what potion Harry was taking."

Now Weasley was as white as Granger. Dumbledore stood up, as did Snape. The two students remained seated, staring up at them – she in shock, he in fear.

"And _that_, Mr. Weasley, is quite an adequate admission of guilt," said Dumbledore. "Granted, there are extenuating circumstances. I will take those into account. But I cannot condone your and Miss Granger's behavior, or Mr. Potter's, for that matter. I expect you three in my office tomorrow morning at 10 am. Is that clear?"

* * *

"Yes sir," Hermione said, feeling rather faint. Ron, she noticed, didn't even reply.

"Excellent. Goodnight."

Dumbledore strode off. Snape cast a foul glance back at her and Ron.

"I've got my eye on you," he snarled, and clambered out of the portrait hole, which shut behind him.

Hermione stared off into space, unable to even turn an angry glare on Ron for being so _abominably_ stupid. It was over. It was all over. There was a click of a door somewhere behind them, but they both ignored it.

"Well," she said dully, "Tomorrow morning we'd better tell Harry that we're being expelled."

"And why," Ron added. "We owe him that much."

"Oh, yes. Won't _that_ be fun."

"We'll be lucky if our parents don't kill us," Ron mumbled, hanging his head.

"Oh, please, Ron, forget the parents. We'll be lucky if Harry ever trusts us again."

With great effort, Hermione heaved herself off the couch and Ron followed her. Together they tromped up the stairs to the boys' dormitory and headed in, only to find the lights were all the way up.

Harry had shifted position. Previously dead to the world and lying flat, he was now wide awake with his glasses on, and had propped himself up with a couple of pillows. The blankets were all over the place.

He did not look pleased. Hermione glanced at Ron, then at Harry.

"Harry, you should be asleep," she said quietly.

* * *

Harry was possessed of many unusual skills, but he was only really proud of a few. One of these was the ability to feign sleep to perfection. It had given him an advantage with Snape in the room. Once the party had migrated, he took the opportunity to wobble clumsily to the door and listen in on the conversation down below. And what a heartbreaking conversation it had been. He'd never felt more helpless or angry or confused, and he just couldn't believe the accusations.

Ever since the bathroom, his mind had been alarmingly clear. He'd realized a few minutes ago that it was due to the last of the Fizz blowing out of him. So he'd had some time to think. And right now, he was thinking about his friends. Covering for him? Helping him? How could Ron and Hermione have done either? They didn't even _know_! They were being framed, that was obvious. So why had they confessed?

Hermione and Ron came into the room timidly.

"Harry, you should be asleep," said Hermione.

Harry just shook his head. "I heard everything," he said, his voice raspy and dry. "Hermione, how could they do that to you? How could you just confess to some cock-and-the-bull story that Snape made up? And Ron, what was that rubbish about a shovel?"

Hermione and Ron looked at each other, then back at Harry. He sat down on Harry's right. Hermione went round and flopped down on Harry's left. And Harry waited. Hermione looked like she was gathering her nerve.

"Harry, that was the truth," said Hermione. "We did attack Snape." She looked down. "And we did cover for you."

Her words stopped Harry cold. "What?"

"You haven't had any Fizz since Thursday evening," Hermione explained. The rest came out in a rush. "Ron and I found out what you were doing about a week ago. We realized the only way to help you was to make you quit using Fizz cold turkey. So we, erm, did away with your supply and I … Look, Fizz is a poison, Harry. But there's an antidote. We put it in your drink for two days. It cleaned you out and got all the Fizz out of your system, but, well, that's what made you feel so awful."

Harry had no words. He stared at Hermione with his mouth hanging open in shock and anger. So his best friends _knew_ what had plagued him for two days. They knew, and they'd caused all this misery. He glared at Ron, who looked very guilty. Things were clicking into place with alarming speed, and Harry didn't like it one bit.

His upper lip curled rapidly, and his untidy hair had dried. It was standing up every which way; he looked remarkably like an escaped mental patient. The illusion was complete when he exploded at Hermione, spit and anger flying in equal proportions.

"I don't believe this! WHAT IN THE FLYING BLUE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?" he yelled, although he went hoarse very fast. "You insane, sadistic … WHY DID YOU _DO_ THIS TO ME?"

He coughed then, which rather ruined the death glare he threw at Ron. Ron looked ashamed. Hermione, however, did not back down. She got a very cross look on her face and glared at him.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said flatly, "but there's been a mix-up. You see, _you_ did this to you."

It was as though time had stopped. The three of them were frozen on their spots, a triangle of flaming emotions, staring at each other. Ron was worried, glancing back and forth between his two best friends. Hermione had her honey-brown eyes trained calmly on Harry. And Harry was seething at Hermione and thinking that he would like nothing better than to take her life.

Fortunately for Hermione, he was too weak and exhausted to try anything like that. He finally cowed under her steady gaze, and stared at his covers. The more he thought about it (though he _really_ didn't want to), the more he realized Hermione had a point. If Fizz really was as bad as she said, then he was well rid of it.

She reached across him for his glass of water and held it to his lips. "Here, drink. You nearly blew your throat apart yelling at us."

Harry drank until he finished the glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Yes, well, I tend to shout when I'm surprised," he bit out sourly.

"So do I – you should have heard me when Ron brained Snape with that shovel," Hermione said.

"Oi, at least I didn't Obliviate the bastard!" said Ron.

"Neither did _I_, by my reckoning!" she spat at him.

"Well then, by your 'reckoning' none of us should be getting thrown out of school tomorrow, but all three of us need to be in Dumbledore's office at 10! Doesn't take a genius to figure out what happens next!" Ron shouted.

"Ron, stop," Harry said. He'd effectively ended their fight, but he took one look at Hermione and felt his temper rise again. "I still can't believe you did that to me. D'you have any idea the hell I went through for two days? It was awful! And worse, I couldn't go to Madame Pomfrey for it! _And you knew why_!"

Hermione picked at some lint on Harry's comforter and sighed. All at once, she looked very tired and sad, but equally resolute. "If you want me to apologize, I can't," she said.

Harry regarded her. "I'm not interested in apologies. I want an explanation. Right now."

Hermione very slowly tucked some bushy hair behind her ear, and Ron, sensing imminent danger, cautiously tried to creep off the bed.

"You stay put," Harry snarled at him.

Ron froze on the spot. Harry crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at Hermione.

"You raided the dorm," he said, after a bit. "That's why you were in here when I came in with Ron."

"Yes," Hermione said.

"And Ron, in his infinite wisdom, sent my hip flask to heaven-knows-where."

Ron sighed. "Look mate, I'm sorry about that."

Harry turned his tired eyes on his friend. "Get me my trousers back, and we'll call it even."

"Done," said Ron fervently. Harry got the idea his friend was just plain scared and probably had no idea how to retrieve those trousers.

"And you cooked up the antidote," Harry said, looking at Hermione.

"Yes."

Harry eyed her for a moment. "Because Fizz is a poison."

"If you take too much, it either destroys your bloodstream or fries your brain," Hermione said tightly.

Harry sensed danger, but he held firm. "And how did you find this out?"

He was immediately sorry he asked. Hermione stumbled through her explanation, tearing up the whole way. By the end of it, she was berating him for his shoddy research and dangerous lack of common sense.

Harry wasn't sure he agreed with her assessment. Something must have shown on his face, because then Hermione she got really angry. She called him a "selfish idiot." She said he'd been acting like a "disaffected introvert," whatever that meant. And she called him a "reckless arsehole" with so much vehemence that she speckled his cheek with spit.

Then she started crying.

Harry had no idea what to do. But he decided right then that no matter how terrible he'd felt for the past two days, it was nothing to how he felt now. How ironic that something as innocuous as skimming an article had put his life in danger and gotten his friends in serious trouble. This whole mess was his fault. As usual.

He didn't even know where to begin. Ron and Hermione would probably never trust him again after this fiasco, and he couldn't blame them. He suddenly couldn't bear to meet Ron's frightened eyes or look at Hermione's tear-streaked face. Slowly and sadly, moving like a whipped dog, he tried to hide.

Hermione wiped her eyes and apologized and protested, and Ron made a grab for him, but Harry ignored their words and hands. He started to burrow as deeply as he could under the covers, tossing one of his pillows to the side and pulling the blankets over his head.

"I'm tired," he said, muffled by the comforter. "I'd like to go to sleep."

Ron made a couple of annoyed sounds, but mercifully got the lights. Harry waited until it was dark before poking his head out. He listened to Ron padding back to his own bed and waited for a shift on the mattress next to him, which would mean Hermione had given up and left, but he waited a long time and the shift never came.

"Harry?" she said finally.

"What?"

"Look, I'm sorry I said those things to you."

Harry sighed. Leave it to Hermione to apologize for being right. "S'all right. I _was_ a reckless arsehole. And you ought to go to bed."

"Yes, I should," she said.

But instead of getting up, Harry felt her shift next to him and lie down at his side. He was shocked. Hermione intended to sleep on his bed! He couldn't understand why even wanted to be in the same _room_ with him, and here she was, by his side.

"You're not afraid?" he asked.

"Why would I be afraid?"

"Well, I attract disaster," Harry pointed out glumly. "And when I don't attract it, I make it. I'd rather the roof not cave in on us."

Harry waited a bit for her reply. When she did, however, it wasn't with words. The sound she made … it took him a second to realize she was laughing. At him. He scowled.

"What?" he snapped. "What's so funny?"

"You!" she said. "Honestly, Harry, have you always been this good at heaping blame on yourself, or is it a cultivated skill?"

"I beg your pardon?" said Harry.

"She's right, mate," came Ron's voice from the next bed. "Hell, I'm amazed you're not still screaming at us for what _we_ did."

"Yes," Hermione seconded. "I thought you'd have nothing to do with us after this, the way we tricked you, and here you are, trying to take responsibility for the whole thing."

Harry wasn't sure what to feel after he heard this. Their show of solidarity and support made him feel a little squirmy inside, like he'd been even more of an arse than he'd imagined. And worse, he couldn't think of a thing to say in his own defense.

"It really will be all right, you know," Hermione said, breaking the silence. "No matter what happens tomorrow."

"Really?" Harry asked. He'd been quite positive that Hermione would be either furious or terrified at the prospect of seeing the Headmaster, but it didn't sound like it.

"Really. And Harry, I wish you'd stop bottling everything up. You very nearly gave yourself permanent brain damage and you scared the hell out of both of us."

Harry sighed. This demanded an answer. "Well, you won't believe me," he said, "but I actually thought that the potion would keep me from making your lives miserable." He gave a hollow laugh. "So much for that."

Hermione moved a bit and bumped into his shoulder. "You really don't understand. We're your _friends_, Harry. Did you think I would ignore you? That Ron wouldn't see? I hope you're sorry about this."

"Oh, I am sorry, very," said Harry fervently.

"And you won't ever do anything like this again?"

"I won't ever do anything like this again."

"Once more, with feeling," Hermione said dramatically.

Harry laughed. "I won't repeat this, I promise. I learned my lesson. No more rubbish potions for me."

"Good," Hermione replied gently.

Harry could just make out the outline of her jaw in the dark. It shifted as she smiled. Harry smiled back. And he stared at her for a moment. Ron was shifting around in his bed, obviously still awake. They were alone.

In later years, when he looked back on tonight, Harry wouldn't recall what exactly triggered his desire to talk about it. Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was Hermione's body heat, or the funny shuffling noise Ron was making. Maybe it was their devotion. All he knew was that he would never get a better opportunity than now to speak, and his friends deserved to hear.

"Hermione, Ron," he began, "I … You … Look, you two saved my life. And there's something about my life that you need to know."

Hermione propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him with interest. Harry could hear Ron sitting up. He licked his lips.

"It's about the prophecy. The ball that we destroyed at the Department of Mysteries was just a record, but Dumbledore showed it to me in his office. He had a copy of it in his Pensieve, because he heard it firsthand from Professor Trelawney."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, and Ron spluttered, "That old bat? Please!"

"Look, I know you both think she's a fraud, and ordinarily I'd agree with you, but this wasn't her teashop nonsense. It was real."

"What does it say?" Hermione asked. She sounded a bit terrified.

"Something about the Dark Lord marking me as his equal, and I shall have power the Dark Lord knows not, and …" Harry sighed. This was the part he hated the most. "_Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives_," he recited. "I either have to kill him or be killed myself to end the war."

There was a long silence.

"Bloody hell," said Ron.

Harry normally would have agreed with him, but just explaining the prophecy to the two people in the world most likely to flip out about it had depleted his energy.

"Harry James Potter, you are not going to die," Hermione said firmly. "We won't allow it."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He just blinked as she started shuffling about again, making sure that he was warm enough. "Besides, you're the strongest person we know," she went on, dragging a corner of his wrap under the covers, and fixing things. "You'll get him."

"Giving me a bit too much credit, I think," he said.

"No, giving you too much credit would be to say you were the _smartest_ person we know," Ron quipped to his right.

Harry smiled. Hermione, though, did not.

"Harry, we love you," she said, her voice tightening. "And if you ever do something this hopelessly retarded again, you won't have to worry about Voldemort killing you. We'll take care of it. Understand?" she finished, lying down at his side again.

Harry chuckled. "Yes."

"Good," she said. "And since we're in this anti-stupidity vein, you should be aware of something."

"What?"

"Well, with the Fizz, you were brilliantly focused. Your grades, as I'm sure you noticed, have climbed."

"Yes?" Harry said, feeling a little nervous.

"It seems," Hermione continued, "That you have set a precedent. And if you slip back into your old ways, everyone will start to wonder what happened to you for three weeks. None of us can afford the suspicion."

"I don't understand," said Harry.

Hermione sighed. "You have to keep studying, you have to keep focused, and you _have_ to stay calm in front of Snape. On your _own_, this time."

Harry groaned. How on earth was he going to do this? Face Snape without the Fizz? He'd rather wrestle an Erumpent.

"You _must_, Harry," Hermione chided. "You can't give the man any more reasons to ruin your life, and besides, you're doing so well."

Harry examined the idea of studying more. Granted, he'd done a lot of it in the past few weeks, but that was mostly because there was no joy left in his life. Now that the Fizz was out of him and he was fully in control of his faculties, his first thought was of playing Quidditch again. But then he bit his lip. There was no reason he couldn't be a good Seeker _and_ a better student. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was time for a change.

"I'll try," Harry finally offered.

Hermione snorted. "Don't _try_, Harry. Do. Now, we've kept you up for far too long. Get some sleep. We all have to be somewhere tomorrow."

Harry blinked at the ceiling miserably. Of course. Dumbledore. Their punishments. Oh, tomorrow was going to be a very bad day, he could tell. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. It was still a while before the cozy darkness, the heat of the bed, and his exhaustion carried him away.

TBC

* * *

We're turning the corner, folks. The final "real" chapter of Fizz will be up next Monday, followed (soon) by an epilogue. 


	16. XV Fall Out

**Reviewers! Angel**, I'm so glad you liked that scene. It took a lot of work. Nice to know it's appreciated. **Sailor**: You got the warm fuzzies? Hooray! Yeah, Ron's just … Ron. I love him, too. **Noompjuh**: Thanks! **Shiba, defeater of laziness**: So glad you're having fun with this. After all, that's the point of fanfiction. Yay! I have a point! And somebody who quotes dialogue that I wrote! Rock on:D Thanks, as always. You're very nice. **Freja**: I fixed that "funny spell mistake" in the last chapter. Thank you for giving my story a "thumps up." I appreciate it. And **Kiwi**, thanks a lot for pointing out that needed revision in the first place. Glad it worked. For someone who is canon-based to take time away from on-line classes to spend on my little story, and actually like it, ispretty big. As for your last comment, it's not a "character change," it's Hermione's recommendation. And don't worry, no matter how hard Harry tries, he won't be that good at it. LOL

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Fall-Out**

Morning came, bright and cold. The misty Scottish sun darted in through the windows and danced on the sleeping faces of everyone in the boys' dormitory. Ron was sprawled out on his mussed sheets, lying dangerously close to the edge of his mattress and snoring loudly. Harry, hidden under a mound of covers, was chuffing quietly. Seamus and Dean, who'd slipped into their beds a little after midnight, were asleep with their clothes on. And Neville, while he'd managed to get into pajamas, had some tell-tale smears of lipstick on his face.

Harry was the first to wake up; he'd never been much for sleeping in. However, last night had really taken its toll. His eyelids were gummy, his whole body ached, and the air in the dormitory was chilly. He peeked out of the blankets and squinted myopically out the window. Eight am's attempt at sunlight was rather pathetic. Feeling rather pathetic himself, Harry moaned and rolled over. He snuggled himself more securely under the covers and shut his eyes. The world could wait. Perhaps he would sleep until noon today. In that blissful ignorance that generally accompanies early-morning grogginess, he had completely forgotten about the meeting with Dumbledore.

* * *

Hermione woke up a little before nine, pleased to see that Lavender and Parvati were asleep. She'd managed to sneak off Harry's bed as soon as he'd conked out last night, and raced across the common room and up the girls' stairs. Soon enough, there were voices down below – the Gryffindors were returning. She jumped into bed and shut her eyes just as her roommates came back in. It had been a close call.

But now she was awake, and they weren't, which meant she could slip out without answering questions. She tiptoed out in her dressing gown and slippers to see if she needed to wake the boys. The last thing they needed to be, especially when meeting the headmaster, was late.

* * *

Ron had not gotten to the edge of his mattress on purpose; he tended to be a bit of a roller. He'd been rolling around all night, and finally he rolled right over the edge of the bed, snoring on the way down and hitting the floor with such a loud thump that it woke him up. He'd dragged most of the covers with him.

Seamus, Neville, and Dean were too far under to hear it, but Harry started awake at the noise and sat up to look. He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and put them on. The world snapped into focus. Ron was sitting on the floor, his sheets all over the place, rubbing his head. Harry bit his lip to keep from laughing.

"All right there, mate?" he asked quietly.

"Timmizzit?" Ron slurred.

Harry checked the clock opposite. To his surprise, it was a little after nine. And then it hit him: they had to meet Dumbledore. Well, first they needed to put on clothes and get breakfast, but Dumbledore figured prominently in the morning's plans.

"Hey, Ron, get up!" he hissed, slipping out of bed and helping his friend.

Ron allowed himself to be helped, and the next ten minutes were a panicked blur of locating clothes and washing up. Everything had to be done quietly, so as not to wake their dorm mates. Harry already had his robes on as he brushed his teeth. Ron carefully shaved his one chin hair. Harry snickered and spat toothpaste into the sink. Ron threw him a dirty look and opened his mouth to say something when Hermione appeared behind them in the bathroom mirror, still in her sleep things. She rubbed her eyes as they turned to her.

"It's after nine. I thought I had to get you up," she explained. And then she seemed to realize something. "Oh, no, we only have forty-five minutes! Meet you at Dumbledore's office?"

"Forty-five… How long does it take you to get ready?" Ron asked incredulously.

Harry elbowed him. ("Oi, I'm holding a razor here!" said Ron.) "Sure, Hermione. We'll meet you there," he said.

Hermione nodded and left. The boys completed their ablutions and went down to breakfast. Ron took less than usual out of nerves, but Harry, who felt half-starved for some reason he couldn't fathom, filled his plate up and dug in. For a few moments, the only sound was the clinking of forks on china. Ron chewed and swallowed, working quickly. Harry simply inhaled.

"Hungry, are you?" Ron asked finally, looking rather amused.

"Tastes good," Harry said around a mouthful of banger. "In fact, it tastes better than it has in a long time."

He sucked up a sunny-side-up egg and belched loudly. Ron laughed and passed him some pumpkin juice. Harry eyed it warily and was only convinced to take some after Ron took a drink, but he did in the end. By the time they finished breakfast, it was nearing ten.

The inevitable was looming. Glumly, the boys got up and walked down to the gargoyle near Dumbledore's office. Hermione was waiting for them, looking polished and presentable. She brushed some lint off Ron's robes and straightened Harry's collar.

"Let's go, shall we?" she said.

Ron looked miserable. Harry swallowed back some of his breakfast. He nodded and turned to the gargoyle.

"Erm, hello," he said. "We have an appointment to see the headmaster."

"I know you do," said the gargoyle, cracking an unpleasant smile at the trio. It hopped to the side, revealing the revolving staircase.

They all climbed on and let it carry them up.

* * *

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. He had invited Severus into his office at a quarter to ten, hoping to be finished with him quickly and perhaps have him miss the students who were coming up, but the man had dropped gracelessly into his chair, looking thoroughly bedraggled, and demanded some strong coffee before they got down to business.

This was not a surprise, given what happened last night after they'd confronted the students. Severus had remembered, with some annoyance, that he needed to get his bats out of the office, so they had trekked back to retrieve the animals. The sight that greeted them had been a quite a shock.

And now, a strange emotion was playing across the Potion Master's face as he slurped (slurped!) from his coffee cup – genuine concern.

Dumbledore was tempted, but he knew better than to ask. Best keep things simple for now. He kept his mouth shut, waited until Snape had finished his coffee and sat up straighter, and began.

"As you know, I am obligated to mete out fitting punishment for transgressions, Severus."

"Yes, you are," Snape said levelly.

"To that end, I feel you would benefit from a lesson. You will, first and foremost, be receiving no Christmas bonus this year."

Snape nodded regally.

"Secondly, since you obviously are so good with children and enjoy crowded social situations _ever_ so much," Dumbledore said with a bit of bite, "You will chaperone the upcoming Hallowe'en Dance."

Snape blanched, but didn't say anything.

"And finally, you will resume Occlumency lessons with Harry Potter."

"WHAT?" Snape exploded. "No! Absolutely not! I refuse!"

"I expect one meeting a week," Dumbledore continued, as though Snape hadn't said anything. "And every month I will bring Harry up to my office for a little exam to chart his progress. Things will be different this time, Severus. I will be keeping an eye on this boy. It is up to you and him to make sure that these lessons are more effective than those of last year."

Snape made no protest. He was just blinking at Dumbledore, his face chalk white.

"That is all," Dumbledore said. "Please send in the Gryffindors on your way out."

He bent over a piece of parchment, took a quill, and began to scribble out some notes. He was halfway through a line when he realized that nothing was moving, and looked up. Snape was still sitting there.

"Severus?"

"All three of them should be punished severely," Snape said.

He was white with anger, but it was clear to Dumbledore that while he was angry at the students, there was something else in play here. Dumbledore nodded.

"They shall be dealt with, Severus."

"They had better," Snape snapped. "Granger stole, lied, and Obliviated for Potter. Considering her inexperience with that charm, I was lucky she didn't cause my brain to liquefy and burst out my ears. Weasley aided and abetted. Everything that happened to me that night was their fault. Potter, apparently Hogwarts' resident _imbecile_, brewed a highly illegal draught that nearly killed him _and _shot our chances for winning this war. The Fizz, which started this whole mess, was _his_ fault."

"Severus, what are you …?"

"I am not finished." Snape leaned in close to Dumbledore, glaring hard into the old man's suddenly startled eyes. "That stupid child felt that the only solution for the pain of losing his detestable godfather was to _drink himself into oblivion_, because no one from the Order spoke to him all summer. And _that_, Headmaster, is _your_ fault."

Dumbledore leaned back, giving Snape a hard glare. "I am putting this tirade down to lack of sleep, Severus," he said, just as Snape burst out …

"Of all the senile notions! The boy had just lost the closest thing he had to a parent, and you decided he 'needed his space.' Now, I have told you often that I disapproved of your 'special' treatment of this boy, but this is disgraceful."

Snape stood up in a sweep of black robes, and prepared to leave. "Tell Potter that I expect him Tuesday night in my office at nine pm … and woe betide him if he is late."

He stalked out of the office, smoothing back his tangled hair, and Dumbledore stared after him in shock.

* * *

Three very surprised Gryffindors met Snape on the other side of the door. "Get in there," he said to Hermione and Ron, before turning a glare in Harry's direction. Harry was not thrilled at the attention, and Snape managed to back him into a wall of Dumbledore's antechamber.

"If," Snape scathed, "the headmaster weasels you out of expulsion, as I know he will, you will most certainly be in detention for a very, _very_ long time. And if the old twit decides you will serve it with _me_ … Merlin's mercy on _you_."

Harry refused to be cowed. He looked Snape straight in the eye, and readied himself to volley a choice insult, but then he remembered Hermione's tip about not exploding in front of his teacher. With visible effort, he got himself under control and said, polite as you please, "Thank you for the information, _sir_. Is there anything else?"

Snape looked slightly surprised, then recovered his composure. He gave Harry a most malicious smile. "Why yes, Potter, there is. Now I know why you stayed so calm in my class for so long. Tisk tisk. Surely you cannot expect your transgression and those of your friends to remain a _secret_."

Harry could feel his blood pressure rising. He knew he had to remain calm in front of Snape, but that didn't mean he had to take this.

"Actually sir, I do," he said quietly, "That's the way it works, isn't it? I keep your secrets, and you keep mine?"

Snape was not smiling anymore. Harry's heart started to race. He didn't know much about blackmail, but he knew that dangling upside-down with his underpants on display was _definitely_ something Snape would like kept quiet. There was a bit of a thrill in this, actually.

"What?" Snape said. His voice was dangerously soft.

"I think we understand each other," Harry replied, his jaw tight. "I saw things, sir, and I haven't told anyone. But if you do what you're threatening, then I'll have to say something, too. Fair is fair, after all."

"Gryffindors?" came Dumbledore's call through the door.

Everyone ignored it. Snape was eyeing Harry as though he had never seen him before. "You're bluffing," the Potions Master said suddenly. "You won't."

Harry gave Snape a smile that was far from friendly and looked straight into the man's cold dark eyes.

"Try me," he said.

"Gryffindors!" Dumbledore shouted.

"Let's go, everyone," said Ron, ushering Hermione towards the door. "Come on, Harry."

Harry and Snape were still staring at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Finally, Snape growled, shoved Harry away from him, and descended the staircase. Harry heard him mutter as he went down, "Merlin's balls! Every week! How am I supposed to survive?"

Harry had no idea what this meant. Flush with (a very tiny) victory, he turned on his heel and walked into Dumbledore's office after Ron and Hermione. Dumbledore was sitting at his desk now, looking slightly agitated. He gestured for them all to sit in the three chairs facing him, which they did.

Dumbledore sat writing for what seemed like a very long time. Ron looked scared. Hermione looked defiant. Harry did his best to look passive. Finally, the headmaster brought his head up. He seemed to have regained his composure.

"I cannot impress upon the three of you the seriousness of what you have done," he began. "That said, I am not about to make an example of any of you. As happy as it would make Professor Snape, there will be no expulsions."

Ron let out a breath.

"However, things must be accounted for and dealt with. Miss Granger."

"Sir?"

"I understand your reasons for Obliviating Professor Snape, but as I told you last night, cannot condone an attack, magical or physical, upon one of my staff. Therefore, I hereby revoke your Prefect privileges, as you have obviously abused them." He flicked his wand at her robes and her Prefect badge disappeared.

Hermione looked miserably at the floor. "Yes, sir."

"SPEW, another thing I understand your reasons for, is a misguided effort. Starting tomorrow, you will help the house-elves down in the kitchens for an hour a day, five days a week for a month. You will watch how they live, and see if that drums some sense into you."

"Sir," Hermione said tightly.

"Mr. Weasley."

"S-Sir?"

"Again, I understand your reasons for doing what you did. But hitting Professor Snape with a shovel? Good heavens, whatever were you thinking? I revoke your Prefect privileges."

Again, Dumbledore flicked his wand and made Ron's badge disappear. Ron, Harry noticed, didn't look nearly as sad as Hermione did at that.

"You will be assigned to one month of detention with Argus Filch, beginning tomorrow, and during that time, you are banned from Quidditch. Should I see you on the field, your punishment will double. Am I clear?"

Well, _that_ took the wind out of Ron's sails. "Yes, sir," he said glumly.

"Good. Mr. Potter."

Harry looked at Dumbledore and tried to remain stoic. "Sir?"

"You will not be expelled, you will not get detention, and since you are not a Prefect, there is no position I can strip from you."

Harry would have smiled at this, but considering he'd caused this whole mess, he was silent and solemn, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dumbledore didn't disappoint.

"Instead, I am re-instating your ban on Quidditch for a month, effective immediately. As with Mr. Weasley, should I see you on the field, your punishment will double."

"Sir."

"You will also continue Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. He is expecting you at 9 pm in his classroom on Tuesday night and insists that you be on time."

Harry felt his insides shaking. More lessons with Snape? Hadn't last year taught Dumbledore _anything_? He was about to protest, but Dumbledore was already moving on.

"And finally, I put a challenge before you. I'm afraid that it will be harder for you to face than anything I have asked of you before."

"I don't follow," said Harry. "Face what?"

"Yourself."

Harry blinked. He still didn't understand. Dumbledore seemed to sense this, because he launched into an explanation.

"St. Mungo's has a small satellite practice in London called The Open House. It employs healers of … a different nature … than those of the regular hospital. Starting on Wednesday, because she is on vacation until then, you will see Miss Midgefield for an hour, three times a week. That means Monday, Wednesday, and Friday."

Harry scratched his head, wondering if Dumbledore was feeling all right. "Sir, I don't know any Miss Midgefield. Who is she? Why am I to see her?"

Dumbledore paused for a moment. It looked like he was gearing up to say something that Harry would definitely not like.

"Miss Midgefeld is a ministry-licensed therapist. I believe you need to talk to someone impartial about what happened in June, and perhaps about other things, too."

Harry sat there with his mouth hanging open. He didn't know whether to be more shocked or angry, so he settled for a combination of both. "You're sending me to a psychiatrist?" he protested. "Look, I may have had a terrible time for a while, but I have all my marbles, thank you!"

"I know you have all your marbles, my boy," Dumbledore said. "That's not what this is about."

When Harry looked at him stone-faced, he sighed. "You will report to my office after classes on Wednesday and floo to London. When Miss Midgefeld is satisfied that you have worked through this, you will not have to go anymore."

Harry stared at the floor for a moment, gathering his resolve and forcing his anger back. It took quite a bit of effort. Of all the humiliating punishments … therapy was for _mad _people! He just hoped no one would find out about this. And then he realized he had Occlumency with Snape, and kissed that secret goodbye. He fought down a groan.

"Yes, sir," he ground out finally. "Are we dismissed?"

"You are," said Dumbledore, leaning back in his chair. "I will see you Wednesday."

Harry nodded curtly. He, Hermione and Ron stood as one and left in silence. Ron closed the door behind them and they all stood at the top of the moving staircase; it had switched directions to take them back to ground level. They all regarded each other dejectedly and stepped on.

A little ways down, Hermione asked, "What do you think, Harry?"

"I think I liked it better when everyone was ignoring me."

"We didn't ignore you," Ron said quietly.

"I know you didn't," Harry said heavily. "I just wish you two hadn't gotten punished for my stupidity."

Harry was staring at his shoes while he said this, so it took him a moment to pick up on the silence around him. He looked up again and found he was eye to eye with Hermione.

"You listen to me very carefully," she growled. "You made a mistake. I was not about to stand back and watch you die for it, and neither was Ron. I don't give a damn what I did to Snape, and I … I don't give a damn about the consequences," she said.

She was obviously rallying hard for control. Harry knew the loss of her position had really stung.

"I need to get to the library. See you at lunch?"

"Sure," Harry said.

She nodded and marched off down the stairs, propelled along by their escalator motion. Soon she was far away from Harry and Ron and out the door. Ron stepped down so he was level with his friend and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"For the record, I don't care either, mate. And, well, I'm a self-respecting bloke, I hate saying stuff like this, but …" Ron rolled his eyes. "If you need to talk, I'm here, all right?"

Harry gave him a wan smile. "Thanks, Ron."

Ron straightened his robes. "Well, I have to go find the team and tell them about our ban. What should I say?"

"Tell them whatever you like," Harry said dully. "Just make sure you tell me so we can get our stories straight." He sighed. "I guess it could have been a lot worse, but … damn! No Quidditch for a month!"

"Plus detention for me," Ron said. "As soon as Mum finds out, my life is over," he added, sounding a bit blasé about it. "Well, I'm off. See you later, Harry."

"Yeah, see ya," Harry said absently as Ron shuffled quickly down the rest of the steps.

Harry rode the stairway all the way to the bottom.

* * *

At noon, Minerva McGonagall was sitting across from Dumbledore in his office. She wasn't quite sure why she had been summoned. Hopefully it wasn't about that Snape poem. Really, leaving it on her desk in the Transfiguration classroom had been … an accident. Really.

"Minerva, I have something to ask of you," Dumbledore said.

"What, sir?"

"I need you to officially relieve Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley of their Prefect duties."

Well _that_ was unexpected. "I beg your pardon?"

"I believe you heard me."

"I did hear you. But Albus, Weasley and Granger were Prefects last year, their OWL year I might add, with no problems. What's changed?"

Dumbledore at once looked very old. "I cannot speak of it. It is a private matter and must be kept as such." When McGonagall began to splutter, he added, "Minerva, I trust your judgment, and you must trust mine."

McGonagall still looked rather ruffled, but she nodded. "Yes, sir. Who shall I appoint in their place?"

"Miss Patil and Mr. Finnegan."

"WHAT?"

Dumbledore continued as though he hadn't heard. "You must tell Gryffindor that Miss Granger has been coming apart at the seams, and the headmaster has just realized this is due to the stress of her duties. She has been relieved of them. And Mr. Weasley … has expressed his fear that he is unable to be fair and impartial with his power. He has also been relieved of duty."

McGonagall stared at Dumbledore in shock. "Albus, I'll tell any story you want, but … Those are terrible choices! I hate to badmouth my students, but Parvati is not very bright and Seamus has abominable judgment. It will be a _disaster_ for Gryffindor House!"

"Minerva, I don't have time to argue. Gather your students and make the announcement, post haste." Dumbledore stood and straightened some papers. "We are done here."

And McGonagall, who made a point of trusting Dumbledore, felt she could do no less than that now. She pushed her anger beneath the surface, stood, and looked Dumbledore straight in the eye.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

And so it began. McGonagall gathered all the Gryffindors on Sunday afternoon, and made the announcement. Seamus looked quite happy and Parvati squealed with joy when McGonagall handed her the shiny badge. Hermione put her face in her hands to stifle her moan.

On Monday morning, Parvati broke in her new Prefect badge by watching as Colin Creevey got his ears boxed by Draco Malfoy … and doing nothing. Seamus, who was with her, convinced her to let a now crying Colin fend for himself. He had to learn how to deal with bullies on his own. Hermione, out of habit, had arrived on the scene just in time to see it. Unable to interfere or help Colin, she ground her teeth and stalked off to class.

And on Monday afternoon, Hermione did her first hour down in the kitchens. The house-elves were actually fairly pleasant and allowed her to help by washing dishes. That was, of course, until Hermione mentioned the possibility of paid labor. Winky got most upset and chased her around with a frying pan for a good ten minutes. By the end of her hour, her hands were pruny from the dishwater and her ears were splitting from talking to Dobby. She had no idea what exactly she was supposed to learn from this.

* * *

On Monday evening, Ron reported to Filch at seven o'clock and was immediately put to work. One of the toilets on the second floor was blocked up. Ron's scrunched his face in disgust when Filch handed him a plunger and a pair of wellies to wade through whatever came up from his plunging. Then he left, cackling.

Ron tugged on the boots, hung up his robes far from the toilet so as not to soil them, rolled up his sleeves and miserably got to work. At least, he thought, he'd come up with a good cover story for why he and Harry were banned from Quidditch for a month.

The team had been told that he and Harry played a trick on a Slytherin, and in vengeance, the Slytherin hit them both with a powerful Dizzying Hex, unliftable except by the caster. If either of them got on a broom, they'd get so dizzy that they would fall off and kill themselves. And if anyone from Gryffindor accused anyone from Slytherin of casting the hex, the caster might realize that Ron told the team, and they'd just decide to do something _worse_.

The team bought it, and sadly decided to just do without Ron and Harry for a month. They promised not to ask the Slytherins about it. And if any Slytherins inquired about their absence, they promised to stonewall them. After all, their next match wasn't until December. But the team was young, and they needed solid leadership, which unfortunately was mostly provided by Ron and Harry. Ginny was pretty good at keeping people in line, of course, but leading practices? This month would be tough.

Ron plunged harder in frustration and brought up a wad of … he didn't even want to _know_ what that was. He made a face and plunged again.

* * *

Potions on Tuesday was a disaster. Harry had spent most of the period clenching his fists in the face of insults and trying, with mixed results, to stay calm. By the end of class he was a wreck, but his potion, ironically, had turned out perfectly.

It was with trepidation that he walked into Snape's office on Tuesday evening. He thought his least favorite teacher would be sitting at his desk marking essays, but Snape was at one of his two lab tables, bent over a potion. As soon as Harry shut the door behind him, Snape snapped his head up.

Harry had expected an angry stare, but Snape looked merely confused. Beyond that, he looked exhausted. His face was sallower than ever, his clothes were rumpled, and his hair was so tangled it looked like he hadn't bothered with a comb in days.

"Potter? What are you doing here?" he asked, without any of his usual nastiness.

Harry didn't know how to reply. It was obvious that Snape was in the middle of something that had all of his attention. But then again, Snape _had_ insisted Harry be here.

"Erm, it's nine, sir. Occlumency, remember?" Harry said, and inwardly kicked himself. He couldn't believe he'd just _reminded_ Snape of his license to torture him on a weekly basis.

Snape looked at his clock. It was nine on the dot. "So it is," he said quietly, and pointed at the chair in front of his desk. "Sit down in that chair, Potter. If you move, you will regret it."

Harry obediently dropped into the chair. Snape, instead of following Harry, walked over to a small doorway that led to a darkened chamber. From what Harry could make out, it was a small library.

"The headmaster was most dissatisfied with the results of our lessons last year," Snape said from the dark room. "Therefore, things will be different this time around."

"Yes sir," Harry said dully.

He sat there for a moment, listening to Snape rustling around beyond the doorway. That was when he heard it. There was the pop of a vial being opened, and then an eerie sound, a weak little "eee! eee! eee!" noise; it sounded like the cry of some small wounded animal. Whatever it was, it sounded like Snape was torturing it.

The idea of Snape torturing small things did not invest Harry with a lot of confidence or calm. By the time Snape came out of the dark room, he was making a marked effort to sit still and not bolt. Then he noticed Snape had a book in his hand. Snape sat down heavily across from Harry and handed it the tome to him without a word.

Harry stopped thinking about crying noises the instant he saw the book. Snape was giving him something? Hmm. Cause for alarm.

"Take it, Potter," Snape said finally, with a bit of his usual silky disgust.

Carefully, Harry took it. Deciding Snape hadn't done anything _that_ heinous to it (the man had handled it after all), he cracked it open and read the title: Mind Clearing for the Totally Inept. He raised an eyebrow. Granted, he wasn't that good at clearing his mind and thinking of nothing, but "totally inept?"

"Sir?" he asked, with some irritation. "Do you want me to read this?"

Snape scowled. He seemed to be back to his normal self.

"No, Potter, I want you to attach it to your face and let the information leak in by osmosis. YES, I want you to read it! You will have finished Chapter One and practiced the first two exercises, which can be found on pages 12 and 30, by next week. It has become clear to me that in order for you to learn anything at all about Occlumency, we must move in baby steps. Therefore, we will begin at the beginning. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said tightly.

"Good. Dismissed."

Harry left the room in a hurry. In spite of hearing those horrible sounds and receiving yet _another_ book to read, that actually hadn't been nearly as bad as he thought it would be.

Of course, there was the final, possibly deadly component of his punishment. On Wednesday after classes, Harry walked sullenly into the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore gazed at him calmly. They exchanged the requisite greetings and Harry walked over to the hearth, where a fire was crackling.

"Remember, Harry, this is not to be made public. Should anyone ask, you're there as Miss Midgefield's administrative assistant. It's volunteer work for school."

Harry didn't think anybody would buy that story, but he nodded. He took the pot of floo powder, grabbed a fistful, threw it into the roaring flames in the fireplace and shouted for The Open House. After a few dizzy moments of spinning, he found himself sprawled on an unfamiliar hearth. Beyond the hearth lay a tile floor, and beyond that was the ground floor of what looked like some stately mansion.

Brushing some ash off his robes, he went to the nearby reception desk and asked for Miss Midgefield. He rattled off Dumbledore's story of why he was there. The witch at the desk was very friendly. She told him where to go and all too soon he found himself on the second floor, outside a simple office door that read "Elendir Midgefield, MLT."

Harry did not move. He didn't even knock. There was no noise in the office that he could hear. He was just wondering what would happen if he stood out here for an hour and then left when Miss Midgefield opened the door. She was a tall witch, dressed in purple, with long brown hair and ordinary blue eyes.

"Ah, Harry," she said kindly, "Come in."

This was mandated by Dumbledore, Harry reminded himself. He had to do as she asked. But that didn't mean he had to like it. He stared at her gloomily, thrust his hands in his pockets, and slouched his way into her office.

* * *

Well folks, this was the last "official" chapter of Fizz. Yes, there's a little mystery with Snape going on. It will be resolved in the EPILOGUE, which should be here in about a week.

**Important Reviewing Information for Lurkers**: If you have been waiting to post a review and you want some recognition, please don't wait anymore. Go ahead and post for _this_ chapter. I can only respond one more time, when I post the epilogue. Thanks for reading. :D


	17. Epilogue: Cheers Again

Well everybody, here we are: the end. **Reviewers**, all my responses are after the text. Enjoy!

* * *

**EPILOGUE: Cheers Again**

The Hallowe'en Dance arrived two-and-a-half weeks into their punishment. The event had started as an afterthought, a follow-up to the Hallowe'en Feast – but the teachers had left the decorating (and the publicity) in the hands of some enthusiastic sixth-year Ravenclaws, so by the time October 31st rolled around, the dance was generating almost as much buzz and panic as the Yule Ball of two years ago.

The carillon boomed out nine times, but everyone ignored it; the party was in high gear. The Great Hall was a riot of black and orange, and the enchanted ceiling showed a beautiful starry night. Underneath a huge dance floor had recently materialized, shoving all of the tables to the sides of the hall. While the Yule Ball had been a rather stiff, formal affair, this dance was casual-dress and pulsing with life. Most of the teachers were laughing around a circular table off to the left, the ghosts were here and there, chatting with students or each other, and real live bats were fluttering around, chittering and squeaking and startling some of the party-goers. A large part of the Hogwarts student body was hopping about on the dance floor, shouting at each other excitedly and rocking away to the driving beat of the Hobgoblins' "Without a Broom." The band, hired by Dumbledore for the evening, was blasting away at barely tolerable decibels, and it seemed like everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves.

One student, however, was watching the dancing and not looking at all happy about it. Hermione sat primly in her pretty red dress and matching robes, facing the dance floor with crossed arms and legs. She wiggled one black-stilettoed foot in annoyance and looked very hurt and angry as she stared at one couple in particular: Ron and Parvati Patil. Hermione had walked in with Ron as she'd promised, but since then, she'd hardly seen him. He spent most of the feast talking to other boys about Quidditch, and as soon as the dancing started he'd run off like a shot, claiming he had to apologize to Parvati for ruining her coat all those weeks ago.

He'd been dancing with her, with great enthusiasm, for the last twenty minutes.

"Ahem."

Hermione looked up. Harry was standing next to her, his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. He wore a green turtleneck and plain black robes, and looked as bored and lonely as she did.

"Hi, Harry," she said, glancing one more time at the dancers. Harry followed her gaze and sat down next to her.

"Bothers the hell out of you, doesn't it?" he commented, inclining his head slightly at Parvati and Ron.

Hermione snorted. "Not half as much as knowing I practically arranged it. I was so _stupid_ to say yes to him! Honestly, I saw it coming a hundred yards off. All he wanted was to walk in with some girl on his arm and then go find some _other_ girl to put on his arm. And here I was, thinking for a split second that he actually wanted to spend some time with me."

Harry began to chuckle.

"What?" she snapped.

"Well," he said, now laughing a little louder, "When have you _ever_ been happy spending time with Ron? Come on, Hermione. He's my best mate, and even _I_ know how daft he can be sometimes."

Hermione couldn't help it. Her lips curled up in spite of themselves.

"Ah, there it is," said Harry, gently elbowing her. "There's a smile."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment and watched the dancers.

"So, how's life in the slow lane?" he asked.

Harry was rather hoping to take Hermione's mind off the dancing, but he realized immediately this was a stupid question to ask. Hermione was still … adjusting … to her new situation. Malfoy had taken twenty points off Gryffindor the other day for her hair looking too much "like a muddy dandelion," so she'd slugged him and ended up with a detention.

"Peachy," she said, emphasizing the "p" rather more than was necessary. It made Harry smile – he knew exactly how she felt.

"And the house-elves?" he inquired.

That seemed to brighten her mood. "They're well, thank you," she said. "And I actually think I've figured out why Dumbledore really sent me down there."

"It wasn't to prove to you what a nutcase you were?" Harry suggested, with a grin.

Hermione shoved him gently. "No. Although I _do_ realize now that they don't want freedom. They're just interested in living their lives."

"I see. So what's your purpose down there?" Harry asked.

"To get them noticed," said Hermione. Seeing the confused look on Harry's face, she went on. "I've had a lot of time to chat with the elves down in the kitchens, and the stories I've heard, Harry! It's really quite amazing stuff. Dobby's great great great great grandfather got shipped off to Africa with magical explorers, for instance. Anyway, after all our chatting, I asked the elves if they wouldn't mind people knowing about them. I told them that even if they didn't want to be free, they were important, and their stories were important, too. So…" She pulled a scrap of parchment out of her pocket. "I asked if I could _tell_ those stories. I'm starting more interviews now, and eventually I think I'll write a book. I've been playing with titles. What do you think of this one?"

Harry took the scrap from her and read it aloud. "We Who Are Invisible: The House-Elves of Hogwarts and Elsewhere. They'll really let you do this?" he asked uncertainly.

"Of course! I asked permission, and they said it was all right, but they all wanted to read it before I tried to get it published. So I agreed. It's wonderful, don't you think, Harry?"

"Erm, yeah. It's great," Harry said quickly, with a slight grimace. He wasn't sure this was that wonderful. After all, if Hermione wrote this book, he might be forced to read it.

Fortunately, Hermione hadn't seen his reaction. She was watching the opposite wall, where Snape was skulking, watching the dancing with sharp, beady eyes and a surly expression. "So how's Occlumency?" she asked.

"Actually manageable," Harry said, glad to get away from the old topic and seizing the new one. "I'm sort of astonished."

Hermione smiled. "Really? Snape isn't throwing you to the floor every time?"

"No. We're starting at the beginning, he doesn't yell quite so much, and I'm actually practicing now. I mean, I have to. If I screw up and someone else gets …" Harry stopped and stared at the floor, his throat feeling tight.

Hermione put a hand on his knee. "It's OK, Harry."

Harry snorted. "You sound like Miss Midgefield."

"Oh, sorry."

"No, that's fine. She's quite nice, actually."

"Well, that's good. At least you're working with … someone pleasant."

Harry didn't reply. They both watched the dancing for a while, but Harry could tell by the way Hermione was biting her lower lip that she desperately wanted to say something.

"So … how _is_ therapy?" she asked quietly.

Harry sighed. He wasn't sure what tack to take. Should he be coy? Casual? Sarcastic? A few responses floated up, and then he realized that his worrying was madness. This was Hermione. When it came to her, honesty was the best policy.

"It ronks," he said.

Then he caught Hermione's eye. She was looking at him with one arched eyebrow, as though waiting for something else.

So he paused, bit his lip and added, quite truthfully, "It's hard."

Hermione was biting her lip again, as though itching to ask him something else. Harry was frankly amazed he'd said that much. At least he hadn't completely lost his head and admitted how much crying he'd done in front of Miss Midgefield. But the thought of his therapist reminded him of something. Hermione had just opened her mouth to speak when he cut in.

"Miss Midgefield told me to say something to you," he said, ignoring the surprise on her face. "So I'll say it, but I'm not just saying it because she said so. I'm saying it because I mean it, all right?"

Hermione looked rather puzzled. "All right."

"Thank you," said Harry.

"It's all right, Harry. What did you want to say?"

"No, that was it," Harry said, laughing. "'Thank you.'"

Hermione laughed, too. "Thank you? For what?"

"For saving my arse, that's what," Harry said honestly. "And from myself, no less – which, as I understand it, is quite the trick. So thank you, Hermione."

"Any time," she said, smiling.

Harry stood up and faced her then, holding out his hand. "Well, come on," he said.

Hermione blinked in confusion.

"I'm not about to let one of my best friends spend a miserable evening just 'cos my other best friend is a twit," he explained. "Fancy a shuffle?" He checked the dance floor. "Or whatever it is they're doing out there?"

She leaned back, crossed her arms, and studied him a moment. "I thought you didn't dance."

A sudden movement caught her eye on the floor. Ron and Parvati were spinning each other around and Parvati's iridescent robes were shimmering like the inside of an oyster, catching all the light in the room.

"Alone," said Harry.

Hermione looked back at him. "Pardon?"

"Alone," he repeated. "I don't dance _alone_."

Hermione smiled at him again and stood up. "Well, Mr. Potter, when you put it that way …"

Harry grinned back and led her out onto the floor.

* * *

Snape, meanwhile, was watching the dancers in annoyance. This whole thing was stupid. Chaperoning a dance, giving Potter Occlumency lessons again, losing that Christmas bonus … and none of this was his fault in the first place. Well, all right, maybe a teeny tiny part of it was his fault, but still!

He heard a distinctive squeak. Something warm and small was wriggling in his shirt pocket.

"Hush," he said quietly. "Discretion, remember?"

The squeak came again and Snape sighed in exasperation. Out of his trouser pocket he surreptitiously pulled a dead lacewing fly, just as Minerva McGonagall sidled up to him, a smile on her face and a stuffed vulture on her hat. Snape scowled at the vulture, but apparently McGonagall thought he was scowling at her, because she used the opportunity to tease him.

"Having fun, Severus?"

Snape faced her with a cold look. "No."

He turned back to his shirt pocket, hoping that got rid of her. Soon after, he heard retreating footsteps. Assuming McGonagall had left, he held out the lacewing. Two little hooked claws appeared on the rim of his pocket, followed by two large black ears and the distinctive black snout of a small Pipistrelle bat, which, on closer inspection, looked like someone had given it a very bad haircut. It grabbed the lacewing and began to eat it with relish, getting wing scales everywhere.

"Oh, my!" said a voice.

Snape jumped and stared.

McGonagall, as it happened, had not left. She was staring at Snape quite avidly. Snape looked back at McGonagall piercingly, doing his best to ignore the little laws-of-nature display going on in his shirt.

"What?" he snapped.

McGonagall looked less surprised now. "Well, not to point out the obvious, Severus, but you appear to have a bat in your pocket."

"It is no illusion," Snape said stiffly, attempting to recover his composure. "I do."

McGonagall's lips turned up. "Indeed. And what, pray tell, is a bat doing in your pocket? I always thought you preferred your animals cut up and jarred."

Snape pursed his lips, ignored her insult, and sighed. "This bat recently did me a service. He proved to Albus that, despite the best efforts of _your_ students and their stupid poem, I am not a drunk."

McGonagall ignored his scathing remark. "And?"

"And, soon after providing this evidence, Albus and I … well, we had to step out of his office, so we left the bat in there alone. When we returned …" Snape licked his thin lips, resigned to telling the story. "Did you know that Pipistrelle bats are insectivores?"

"I did not," said McGonagall, mystified as to where this was going.

"Among their prey are moths. And moths, as you know, are attracted to light. Albus has many candles in his office, as well as a few bugs. I believe the bat must have chased a moth towards a candle."

McGonagall stared at him. "And?"

"And, when Albus and I returned to the office, the bat was flapping around crying at the top of its lungs, completely on fire."

"Oh, Severus!"

Snape ignored her and went on. "I put the bat out. He was half-dead; needed all sorts of salves and things. It was rather touch-and-go for a few days. However, as you can see, he's better now."

McGonagall stared again, noting of Snape's choice of pronoun. "_This_ is the bat? The one that erm, cleared your name, as it were?" Snape nodded regally, and the bat squeaked cheerfully at her. She smiled. "Well, it's certainly looking healthier. When will it be able to fly again?"

"He'll fly as soon as he's strong enough. His wings need to heal up and all his fur has to grow back in. For now, though, he can ride around in my pocket."

The bat made another happy squeaky noise. Snape absently scratched the creature behind the ears with a long, tapered finger. His face was completely expressionless, but he couldn't hide the ease of his gesture.

McGonagall smiled again. "I do believe it likes you, Severus," she said, and then added, "and vice versa."

"Spare me," said Snape dryly, digging out another lacewing and handing it off to the bat. "He doesn't _like_ me, he enjoys _eating_. And as for my liking him – my God, woman, it's a bat. It's impossible to have _feelings_," he spat the word out like he'd tasted something vile, "for something so … so insignificant."

McGonagall was hardly convinced. "Whatever you say," she drawled. "Does this bat have a name?"

Snape looked rather annoyed, but answered her. "Yes, thanks to Albus. 'Terrence.' What sort of stupid name is that for a bat? I make it 'Terry,' that's slightly _less_ abhorrent, but he won't answer to anything else. Still, he started life as a wild creature. I suppose I should consider it a favor that he answers to anything at all."

'Terry' squeaked again, more vehemently this time. He was so insistent on getting Snape's attention that he pulled halfway out of his cloth hideaway, revealing a sparsely furred back with several other bald spots.

"No, you may not have another!" said Snape to the bat. He sounded slightly annoyed but not nearly as authoritarian as he usually did. "You've had your supper, now –"

"Chirry-chee!"

"Oh, be quiet!"

McGonagall started laughing then, and Snape wasn't quite sure why. He ignored her cackling and gently pushed Terry back down into his pocket.

* * *

Harry and Hermione had some success with a slow ballad (meaning Harry had managed not to step on Hermione's feet and Hermione had steered him properly), but the dances that followed were less easy to fake. So after a pathetic Lindy, a klutzy two-step, and a miserable attempt at the electric slide, they decided it was time for a sit.

Flushed and sweaty, they headed for the punch bowl. Harry, quite relieved that he could finally do something helpful, ladled himself and Hermione each a cup of acid green liquid that smoked mysteriously. It was thick and sweet, bubbly like fizzy water, with an aftertaste of lime.

"Flitwick must have cast the vapor charm," Harry said, as they sat down nearby. He gulped down half of his drink. "I don't think anybody else could make it last so long."

Hermione nodded. She had just taken a dainty sip of her punch when a voice above them said "Oi!"

It was Ron, holding a glass of punch. He had gone far too casual in a t-shirt and jeans under the dress-robes Fred and George had given him, but he looked rosy-cheeked and happy. In fact, he very cheerfully grabbed a seat next to Hermione, as though he hadn't been ignoring her all evening. Hermione looked rather cross. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Hello, Ron," he said evenly. "Having fun out there?"

Fortunately, his tone of voice was enough to slightly sober his friend. Harry flicked his eyes at Hermione and Ron got the hint.

"Er, hi, Hermione," Ron said carefully. "Er, fancy a dance later?"

Hermione eyed him. "Well that depends," she said. "Are you finished ignoring me?"

Ron frowned. "I wasn't ignoring you, I was dancing with Parvati!"

"Riiiight," said Harry.

"I was!" said Ron, turning a bit red.

"Oh stop it, both of you," said Hermione. "Ron, you go off and dance with Parvati. I really don't care. Have fun."

Ron groaned. "Well I can't have fun with you guilting me like that!" He swallowed his punch in two gulps. "Come on, we're dancing."

"Wha – Whoa!" said Hermione as Ron grabbed her hand and jerked her up from the chair. Her punch went flying and splashed Harry in the face.

"Whoops," said Ron. He whipped out his wand. "_Accio_ napkin!" A napkin flew into his hand and he gave it to Harry, who snatched it from him with a dirty look and began to clean his glasses with it.

The punch had stained Harry's turtleneck, though. Ron noticed this. "It's all right, Harry, I'll just give it a scouring charm." He raised his wand.

"NO!" Harry and Hermione said together.

"No, Ron," said Harry, and shooed Ron back out onto the dance floor. "Really, it's fine. You go have fun. Hermione and I will just sit here for a while."

"You're sure?"

"Go!" said Harry, and he laughed. "We're fine. Just go."

"All right," Ron said warily, and went back out on the floor to look for Parvati.

Harry plunked himself back down and dabbed at his shirt again. After a bit of this a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see the business end of Hermione's wand.

"_Limpiacamus_," she said, and the stain on Harry's shirt disappeared, much to his delight. "Honestly, when is Ron going to figure out that '_Scourgify_' is designed for hard surfaces?"

Harry laughed. "Knowing Ron, I'd say never."

Hermione laughed too. Harry sat watching the dancing as she got herself a fresh punch and sat down. The hall was only pleasantly warm now that they'd both had a chance to rest. Harry mopped the back of his neck with a napkin.

"Hey, I want to offer a toast," said Hermione.

This surprised Harry. "Oh? All right, let's have it."

Hermione closed her eyes and thought for a moment, before finally holding up her glass. "Here's to worry. Here's to friendship. And here's to everything turning out all right, in spite of nearly going so terribly wrong."

She looked Harry directly in the eyes then, and it finally hit him what Hermione and Ron had done, and how little they really cared about the consequences. Harry gulped. The seconds ticked by. Hermione was giving him a warm smile now, and he wanted desperately to say something kind or witty to her, but his throat was getting a bit tight. So he just smiled back, cleared his throat and, praying she would understand, clinked her glass with his own and thrust his entire response into one word.

"Cheers."

THE END

* * *

Well, that's it. Had fun? I hope so. Drop me a line or leave a review, pretty please. I have some more Harry stories but they'll have to wait until I wrap up another project (it's been dangling for a **year**). I'll be back, though, I promise. It's been a pleasure writing for you all. :D

Always,

Kiki

**Reviewers! EAV: **Thanks for your support. I had fun writing this. Glad you enjoyed it! **Angel: **Yeah, you know how I said, "Snape's not a bat person?" Changed my mind. I'm glad you liked Terry – er – Terrence. I don't think he'll be Snape's familiar, but he'll be something awfully close. Thanks as always for your inspiration and support – some parts of this story literally couldn't have happened without you. Cheers! **Shiba, defeater of laziness and her exasperated pony:** THANK YOU! I'm so happy you enjoyed this thing. I'm grateful for your praise, support, and enthusiasm. Folks like you make it a joy to write on this site. **Freja:** Cheers, babe. I appreciate all five of your thumbs. LOL Glad you enjoyed this story. **Kiwi:** Yeah, I've got your number. You're just in it for the fame and the money. LOL Thank you so much for all of your help and de-facto beta-ing. You've been incredible. Best of luck with all your on-line doings and I hope to be in some sort of contact with you again. **Anaticulapraecantrix: **Why thank you for putting me on your list! Best wishes.


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